


The Only Familiar Thing

by brideofquiet



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Communication Failure, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Is It a Vacation If You Don't Know It's a Vacation, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 04:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11073927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: Steve takes a breath, steels himself, and asks, “Where are we going, Buck?”Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one driving, Steve.”And before Steve can protest, Bucky gives him that broad, toothy grin again. The worry pitted in his stomach ebbs, and he decides—what the hell? Why not? Steve pulls his helmet on and swings a leg over the bike. Bucky settles in behind him, and he cranks the engine to life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This thing started as one self-indulgent scene in the notes on my phone, then it grew a plot and now here we are. Much gratitude goes to my beta [ladra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ladra), without whom this wouldn't be nearly as good. Thanks also go to everyone on the SBB Slack who cheerled for me even though this isn't even my SBB. Y'all are great, etc.

Bucky starts to pack.

It’s in fits and starts, slowly—one thing at a time. He’ll take one clean shirt from a load of laundry, fold it neatly, and tuck it away in his backpack. Next time, it’s a balled up pair of socks. He comes home with a few new books and slips one into the front pocket. Protein bars, an extra stick of deodorant from the bathroom drawer, a blank notebook. The backpack fills up item by item.

Steve isn’t sure if he’s supposed to notice. He’s not even sure that Bucky knows he’s doing it, with how offhanded it is, but Bucky isn’t trying to hide it either. The backpack sits right there on the chair in the corner of Bucky’s room. Steve might not have occasion to go in there very often—Bucky’s usually in Steve’s room anyway—but he does vacuum every now and then. 

The first time he sees the backpack, he doesn’t think anything of it. It doesn’t attract his attention until he notices it getting fuller. Then he starts to worry. He waits for Bucky to mention it, to explain it, to say anything at all about it. But he doesn’t, and the worry starts to chew a hole in the pit of Steve’s stomach.

Bucky can’t leave, technically—not without Steve anyway. It’s a stupid rule, Steve thinks. He made sure everyone knew that he thought that. But Bucky had been fine with it, didn’t want to fight it, didn’t seem to think it was worth the bother. Steve didn’t fight it either then, because that’s what Bucky wanted. And he’s seemed content since then, for the most part. As content as he can be, given the circumstances, and he’s never even brought the rule up since those first few days.

Why the backpack, then?

If Bucky doesn’t want to tell him, Steve won’t ask. Instead, he starts to pack too. He gets out a small duffel bag from the back of the closet and piece by piece, he lines the bottom with clothes. After his run one day, he sticks a spare pair of tennis shoes on top. He seals travel-sized shampoo and soap in plastic bags and tucks them into the side pockets. Day by day, his bag fills up. As it does, he feels that tight knot of worry in his stomach loosen—not disappear, but at least now he’s packed too. He is prepared. 

The only thing he doesn’t have a spare of is his toothbrush. That’ll be the last thing then.

Bucky has to notice. Steve purposely leaves the bag out on his desk, gathering bulk. He knows Bucky notices, because he walks into his room one evening to find Bucky poking around in it. Steve stops in the doorway, a spike of anticipation lodged in his heart, and leans against the frame to watch.

Bucky pulls out a shirt, unfolds it, then rolls it up tightly and tucks it back inside. He pulls out another one and starts to do the same thing. Over his shoulder, he says, “It’s more efficient to pack it like this.”

Of course he knew Steve was there. He always knows, quiet though Steve’s tread may have been, socked feet on the carpet.

“Okay,” Steve says. As he walks into the room, he feels his chest constrict. It’s not fear, and not excitement either—maybe both. He comes to stand beside Bucky at his desk, in front of the bag, brushing light fingertips over the small of his back. The fabric of his sleepshirt is soft and well-worn. “Show me how?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, and he smiles at Steve before reaching into the bag with both hands and pulling out a wad of clothes, tossing them onto the bed behind him. “It’s easier with more space,” he clarifies, grabbing the bag and dumping it on the bed too. Steve turns with him, and together they get all of Steve’s clothes rolled and packed away snug. It takes all of five minutes.

“Huh,” Steve grunts, hands perched on his hips. His belongings take up half as much space now. He turns to Bucky, the question on the tip of his tongue, but it dies there when he sees Bucky’s satisfied little smirk. 

“Told you,” Bucky says, nudging an elbow into Steve’s ribs.

“I could fit the rest of my closet in there.” Steve reaches out with one hands to thumb at the zipper, and he can see his fingers trembling just slightly. The question is right there, in the room with them. Why won’t Bucky just answer it? He glances over his shoulder at the closed closet door. It puts Bucky right in his line of vision. “I could fit a whole person,” he says, a little breathless, his eyes sliding over to Bucky. He smiles crookedly, playing up his own joke to distract himself.

Bucky huffs half a laugh, shaking his head. Loose strands of hair fall from the stump of a ponytail he’s got it pulled back into. He’d cut it off initially, but he’s been letting it grow back out now. Steve likes it long, likes that it’s somewhere to put his hands, that it’s different. When Bucky glances back up at him, the freed hairs drift down to frame his face. Steve reaches out to tuck the hair back behind his ear. His fingers linger against Bucky’s scalp, stroking over the skin, as he wonders what’s going on beneath it.

Bucky raises one eyebrow curiously, eyes darting down to Steve’s lips, and it’s like someone pulled the stopper in Steve’s body. The worry drains out of him, replaced with heat, pooling low in his belly and filling him till it’s halfway up his throat. Steve is on him in an instant, pulling at his shoulders and turning him so his back’s to the bed. Bucky gets the idea quickly enough and sinks backward onto the mattress, Steve following him down. One of them—Steve isn’t sure which—kicks the bag out of the way. It falls to floor with a thud, probably ruining their hard work.

“Do you roll up tight like that?” he breathes into Bucky’s ear. He can feels Bucky shiver underneath him, and Steve drags his mouth across the rough stubble on Bucky’s cheek till he catches his mouth under his own. He kisses him soft at first. He always starts soft, until Bucky goes loose and open underneath him. When that happens, when Bucky sighs and parts his lips, Steve chases the breath back down his throat. Bucky’s hands fly up off the bedspread to grip at his shoulders, scrabbling for purchase as he rises to meet Steve’s intensity, but Steve shifts back onto his knees. He doesn’t break the kiss, still mouths hungrily at Bucky’s full lips, but he gives himself enough room to grab Bucky’s hands. He takes them in his own and tucks them together, folds Bucky’s arms over his chest, and holds them there till Bucky understands. He’s always quick to catch on to whatever Steve is doing.

“I’ll roll you up right,” Steve rasps at the corner of Bucky’s mouth. He reaches back to grip the outside edge of Bucky’s knee, maneuvering his leg up till it’s flush against his own side. Steve runs his hand over the cotton of Bucky’s sweatpants, then drags his fingernails back up his hamstring. Bucky gasps underneath him, and Steve pulls back an inch to see the blue of his eyes, bright hot center of a flame.

“Tuck you up nice and neat,” Steve says. Bucky ducks his head up to press a warm, wet trail of open-mouthed kisses down the line of Steve’s throat. Steve reaches for Bucky’s other leg. “Fold you up, fit you in my bag, and take you with me,” he murmurs, pushing at Bucky’s leg until he’s nearly folded in half beneath him. Bucky sighs against his neck, noses at his jaw till Steve understands—it goes both ways—and angles his head down till their mouths meet again.

Steve rolls his hips down now, finally, the friction sparking bright little flashes behind his eyelids. Bucky groans underneath him, spreading his thighs wider so he can clamp them around Steve, slotted between them like a vice-grip.

“You can,” Bucky mumbles against his mouth, and Steve rocks down against him again. “I’ll let you, I’ll fit. I’ve done it before.”

Just like that, it breaks—shatters. Steve pulls back, stricken, mouth popping into a little circle. His brain lurches to a halt, frozen on that implication. He feels sick with it. Bucky picks up the message slower this time, eyelids fluttering open to stare up at Steve. He looks a mess, his hair now mostly out of the tie and tangled up on the pillow beneath his head. His flushed, spit-slick mouth hangs slack and open. But his eyes are clear, sharp, and it only takes him a beat to figure it out. His mouth snaps closed, lips twisting down into a hard frown.

“Steve,” he starts, sternness in his voice matching the downward slant of his eyebrows. He unwraps his arms from each other and reaches up with one hand to cup Steve’s neck, but Steve jerks backward. With a heavy sigh, Bucky’s legs fall open wide, and Steve scrambles out from between them.

He pauses on the edge of the bed, struck with a need to explain himself. It won’t come though, on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t say it. Instead he rattles out, “I … I’ve got to—clean up the kitchen,” and jerks a thumb toward the open door.

Bucky blinks at him, passive and tired, but then he nods. 

Steve nods back, shoulders hunched inward, then heaves himself all the way off the bed. On the way out of the room, he pauses in the doorway to glance back at Bucky. He still has his ankles tucked up, knees fanning out to the side. The metal hand rests over his heart. The other arm he has flung across his face, covering his eyes. 

Something thick and awful twists in Steve’s gut, but he doesn’t know what to do about it, so he turns and leaves the room.

 

Steve doesn’t ask him to, but Bucky sleeps in his own bed that night. He never has to ask him to, never would even if he needed him to, but he does anyway. 

It’s a long night.

In the morning, Steve rouses to the smell of eggs and bacon. He pads into the kitchen, rubbing at his tired eyes. Before he makes it to the table, Bucky has a cup of coffee set on it for him—cream, no sugar. 

“Thanks,” he says, half of it obscured by a yawn.

Bucky brings two plates to the table, stacked high with breakfast food. He slides one into place in front of Steve, who’s busy inhaling his coffee, before taking his own seat across from him.

“Sleep alright?” Bucky asks around a bite of toast. He glances up as Steve sets his coffee down to pick up the fork. Steve looks at his perfectly peppered eggs and the bacon that’s just this side of too crispy, the way he likes it. An odd wrenching feeling coils in his chest, grateful and guilty at once.

“I’ve had better,” Steve says. He meets Bucky’s eye and smiles, just a little around the corners.

“Yeah,” Bucky huffs, tipping his head down and rubbing at his chin. When he looks back up at Steve, one half of his mouth curls into a wry smile. “Yeah, me too, pal.”

 

The apartment is conspicuously clean when Steve gets home that evening. He’d been gone since just after breakfast, for strategic training and then an emergency mission. It had been local, small scale, something SHIELD remnants or even the local law enforcement probably could have handled truth be told. But they’d been called in, they had handled it, and then Steve went home.

There’s a sandwich in plastic wrap sitting on the kitchen table next to an apple. Steve unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite—BLT on whole grain, light mayonnaise—before throwing away the plastic. He picks up the apple in one hand, contemplating it as he chews, then glances up and around the room for the first time.

The first thing he notices is the empty sink. It’s long past dinner time, so unless Bucky didn’t cook anything, he must have done the dishes too. Either option is out of the ordinary. Bucky’s not messy per se, but he does tend to leave a trail of clutter in his wake—dirty dishes, discarded clothes, empty snack wrappers, stray pens. The place looks lived in. But today it is immaculate, polished like a model home. The baseboards might even be clean. 

A cold shock of fear charges through him. Steve doesn’t think, just runs, bolting down the hall toward Bucky’s bedroom. He elbows the door open so hard it flies back and ricochets off the wall, clipping him in the shoulder as he tramples into the room.

But there, still sitting on the chair, is Bucky’s bag. Steve feels himself breathe again, and the tightness in his chest gives way. He stays there, looking around the bland room, while his heart rate slows. Eventually he turns away, pulling the door shut behind him. He shuffles back up the hall to the cracked door he’d barreled right past.

Bucky is in the bedroom, Steve’s bedroom—theirs. He hasn’t made it under the covers, but he’s well on his way, in pajamas and intent on the book in his hand. He has his big over-the-ear headphones on, and he nods his head along just the slightest bit to whatever’s playing. Just the one lamp is switched on, and it throws a warm glow over the basic taupe of the walls. Bucky has his right hand up to his mouth, thumbnail caught between his teeth. Not biting it, Steve knows—just tapping it against his teeth, between them, like he might bite it. He never does.

Steve raps a knuckle against the doorframe, though he knows Bucky already sees him. He wonders if he saw or heard him thunder down the hall, but Bucky doesn’t say anything when he glances up at him. He just twists his thumb around, nail side up so his index finger presses into his chin. He sets the book down in his lap and pulls his headphones down to hang around his neck. Steve can just hear the steady beat of the song still playing, nothing he recognizes.

“Thank you,” Steve rumbles, brow pulled down. Then he holds up what remains of the sandwich and the apple.

“Double fisting it?” Bucky asks, dropping his hand from his mouth. He smiles, but it’s tight-lipped. Steve thinks that there’s no way Bucky didn’t hear him, even with the headphones.

“I didn’t know where you were,” Steve answers as nonchalantly as he can manage. He takes a bite of the apple, and the crunch of it is loud in the quiet of the room.

Bucky looks thoughtful while Steve chews, and Steve hopes for an instant that Bucky will say something. But he doesn’t, just glances back down at his book again and says, “I’m right here.” He licks a finger and turns the page, paper rasping against paper.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. Right here.

“Planning on showering before you come to bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, I can smell you from here,” Bucky deadpans without looking up from the book. Steve chucks his apple core at him before turning toward the bathroom. 

When Steve comes back from the shower, towel-dried and in pajamas, the lamp is still on but Bucky is asleep. Or he looks asleep anyway, on his side facing away from the lamp, one arm curled under the pillow. His breath comes and goes evenly. Even though it’s partially obscured by loose hair, Steve watches his slack face, the parted lips and smoothness of his forehead. The little knot of tension sitting between his shoulders loosens. After a moment, Steve circles around to Bucky’s side of the bed to switch off the lamp. Without thinking, he grabs a baseball cap sitting on top of the dresser as he passes. He winces at the loud rasp of the bag’s zipper, but he tucks the hat inside before easing it closed again.

When he turns and leans over to cut the light off, Bucky cranes his neck around to look at him, still half-asleep. The angle of the light throws strange shadows across his profile.

“You going somewhere, Steve?” Bucky asks blearily, twisting onto his back and propping himself up on an elbow. They’re close, Steve still leaning over the nightstand with one hand splayed on the edge of the bed.

Steve’s breath catches in his throat. He manages to say, “I don’t know. Are you?”

Bucky’s eyes slide closed and he sinks into the bed on his back. Steve would think he’d lost him to sleep if it weren’t for the faint smile. Bucky shrugs then, a big roll of his shoulders that he continues into a stretch, fingers brushing against the headboard. He opens his eyes to look at Steve, and his smile distorts.

“I don’t know.”

Steve nods, stomach churning, and finally flicks off the light.

In the dark, Bucky mumbles, “C’mere, you.” Steve lets Buck pull him down halfway on top of him. Steve trails a smattering of kisses across his forehead before shifting away. Bucky whines at him, tightening his grip around Steve’s back.

“Hang on, I’m just getting under the blankets.”

He maneuvers till he’s under the layers, just a sheet and a quilt. Even though it’s been chilly out, they create more than enough heat between the two of them. Steve lays on his side with his back to Bucky, who wriggles up behind him and plasters himself along every line of Steve’s body. He loops his right arm over Steve’s waist, the left one tucked tight against his own body. Bucky hauls him in close, and Steve presses himself back into it. He sighs, and out with his breath pours all the day’s tension. He falls asleep with Bucky’s breath stirring the hair at the nape of his neck.

 

The pipes in the apartment are loud. It’s an old building, and the only renovations have been superficial. Steve suspects the superintendent has never had a plumber in to look at the pipes, even though he knows he can’t be the only tenant who’s sent him a note about the noise. They rattle and groan every time the water’s turned on or off.

When Bucky rolls out of bed, Steve slides into the warm space he left with every intention of going back to sleep. But Bucky gets in the shower, and the pipes run right behind the headboard, tap tap tapping. He grumbles to himself about it, but he gets up and paces into the bathroom. Bucky peeks his head out from behind the curtain when the door creaks open, just for a split second to check it’s him, then ducks back before Steve can even acknowledge it. He leaves the door open to let the steam out, reaching up to wipe a hand over the foggy mirror so he can see himself. Steve washes his face, combs his hair, and is just reaching for a razor when the water shuts off. The pipes give a sighing shake.

Bucky sticks a hand out and gropes around the rack for a moment before latching onto a towel, pulling it back behind the curtain. Steve lathers up his face and has half a cheek done when the curtain slides open. Bucky steps out, towel tied around his waist and wet hair slicked back against his skull. It’s a tight space, their tiny bathroom with its outdated tile. Steve can feel the heat of Bucky’s body a hairsbreadth behind him. Steadily gliding the razor over his jaw, he watches Bucky in the mirror.

Bucky sniffles, looks up, and catches Steve’s eye in the mirror. He pulls a face and sticks his tongue out. Steve nearly nicks his neck with the blade when he starts laughing.

“Careful, there,” Bucky warns him fondly, pinching Steve’s elbow as he moves past him out the door. 

Steve is still shaving when Bucky comes back into the bathroom, fully dressed. He has on a long-sleeved t-shirt that clings in places where he didn’t dry off properly, with slim-cut jeans cuffed over a pair of his usual combat boots. Even with his hair still wet and dripping dark spots onto the collar of his shirt, he looks so effortlessly modern in a way that makes Steve’s heart flutter in his chest.

He reaches past Steve with one hand, the other brushing against his mid-back, but pauses when he catches Steve’s eye in the mirror again.

“What?” Bucky asks. He frowns and glances down at his shirt, pulling the hem out like he’s worried it’s stained.

“Nothing,” Steve says, shaking his head. “That’s a nice color on you.”

He points at Bucky’s ocean blue shirt in the mirror and cracks a smile when Bucky flushes, ducking his head. Any time a girl used to compliment him, he let it roll right off with a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders, like he was pleased but it didn’t matter much. Steve always figured he had to react that way or risk everyone thinking he had an inflated ego, or maybe it was that people said it so often that it stopped meaning anything to him. Half the girls at school fawned over him, and then later, half the girls at the dance halls and bars. Steve knows now, having had a taste of it himself, that it gets old after a while and that most people intend something by it. It’s never just a compliment.

But every time Steve praises him, tells him he looks good and means only that, Bucky colors all over the apples of his cheeks and won’t meet Steve’s eye. He’s always done that, gone all bashful, and Steve revels in it every time—that he’s the only one to make him look like that.

Bucky glances up at Steve from under his lashes. His eyes narrow roguishly as he asks, “You think so?”

“I just told you I do, stop fishing,” Steve says, grabbing the hand towel off the counter and popping Bucky in the side with it.

“Ow!” Bucky exclaims, snatching the towel away before Steve can twist it up again.

“There’s no way that hurt you,” Steve says, leaning down to splash water over his face. When he straightens back up, Bucky hands him the towel and watches in the mirror while Steve pats his face dry. He has his thumbnail back in his mouth, and Steve can hear it tapping against his teeth. He can practically see the gears turning in Bucky’s head.

“What? Did I miss a spot?”

“You’re fine. Can I use that?” Bucky asks, pointing to the razor on the counter.

“Yeah, Buck, you don’t gotta ask me,” he assures Bucky, handing him the razor. Bucky takes it and angles his face in the mirror, like he’s trying to figure out a plan of action. He shaves infrequently, maybe once a week, but the stubble he has now is only two days old. Steve reaches out a hand to trail the back of his fingers over his cheek. He likes the roughness. Bucky looks sideways at him, and Steve feels it under his hand when he smiles. He pulls away and goes to get dressed for the day.

After sliding his jacket off the desk chair and over his shoulders, Steve returns to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Bucky is clean-shaven now and reaching for his own toothbrush. He grabs Steve’s too and hands it to him, and then holds out the toothpaste when he’s done with it. They brush, they spit, they tap their brushes out together and when Steve sticks his back in the holder, Bucky keeps his in hand and walks out of the bathroom.

Steve stares dumbfounded after him for a silent moment.

Then his insides tie themselves together. With what, he isn’t sure—nerves, excitement, abject terror. He shakes himself and follows Bucky out of the room.

Bucky is halfway down the hall to his own room, and when he reaches the door he pushes it open and leaves it that way. In the doorway, Steve pauses with his hands on his hips. The confusion sits heavy at the back of his throat as he watches Bucky fish a plastic bag out of a side pocket of his backpack. The thing’s stuffed to the gills now, ballooned out and full. Bucky sticks his toothbrush in the bag and tucks it back into the pocket.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, worry knitting his brow together, knotting up his stomach.

“Oh, could you grab my book from the nightstand?” Bucky asks without looking at him.

“Sure,” Steve answers rotely, backing out of the room and heading back to his. He finds himself in the bathroom again, grabbing his own toothbrush from the holder. He packs it away in his bag, then slings the duffel over his shoulder and picks up Bucky’s book from the nightstand. It’s a paperback, lightweight, something with space on the cover and well-worn pages. Bucky gets most of his books secondhand from a shop a few blocks over. Almost unthinkingly, Steve gathers up the headphones and the MP3 player still attached by the cord. 

He drifts down the hallway to find Bucky in the kitchen peeling an orange. His backpack sits on the table. Steve dumps his bag beside it and holds up Bucky’s things in his hand. “I’ve got—”

“Oh, great,” Bucky interrupts. Popping a slice of orange into his mouth, he rounds the counter and takes the book and headphones from Steve. “Of all the things to forget,” he says, pulling a case for the headphones out of his pack and slipping them inside, then inside the pack itself. “I made you a sandwich,” Bucky tells him, nodding his head toward it sitting on a paper plate by the sink.

“Sandwiches for breakfast,” Steve says. It doesn’t come out like a question, the way he meant it.

“Peanut butter and banana. I didn’t want to dirty any dishes,” Bucky answers anyway. He rifles through his bag now, checking and rechecking and patting things into place. Steve eats his sandwich in silence, the peanut butter sticking to the roof of his mouth. He watches Bucky, brows pinched, trying to figure out what he’s missing—what’s going on. 

He finishes his sandwich and throws the plate away, and Bucky straightens up. He looks bright around the edges, anticipating, as he hefts his pack over his shoulders. He grabs Steve’s duffel and holds it out to him.

“Ready to go?” Bucky asks. Then he does the damndest thing: he grins at Steve, huge and excited.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says, shaking the confusion from his brain. Whatever this is—that smile—it has to be good, right? He takes his bag. Bucky skirts around him to gather up the rest of his orange in one hand, tossing the peel in the trash. He pauses by the hall closet to pull two helmets out—one silver, one blue—and throws one over his shoulder at Steve. Steve catches it, slides his wallet in his pocket, and grabs the keys off the hook. He locks the door behind him and doesn’t look back.

 

Steve follows just behind Bucky as he heads down the stairs and out the side door of the building that leads to the parking lot. The lot is nearly empty right now, just two old sedans and Steve’s motorcycle parked by the fence. Bucky walks right up to it and peels back the cover.

Steve pauses halfway across the lot and glances up at the sky. It’s clear blue, only a few stray wisps of clouds—the perfect day for a ride. Despite the lingering apprehension, Steve feels himself starting to smile as he joins Bucky by the bike. It’s the weather, he tells himself, though he knows it’s the excited energy rolling off Bucky too.

Bucky folds the cover to pack it away in a saddlebag. Steve circles around and flips the cover on the other bag to fit his duffel inside. It takes some cramming, and while he does it Bucky ties his hair back. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see him watching him, chewing on his lip like he has something to say. He gets the saddlebag fastened shut and turns to face Bucky. Before either of them can say anything, one of their neighbors trundles into sight.

“Good morning, boys!” Mrs. Sanchez calls to them with a cheery wave, car keys in hand. “Ooh, you going on a trip?”

Steve looks at Bucky, waiting for the answer, and Bucky looks back at him inscrutably for a long moment before his face opens up into a wide smile. He pivots to face Mrs. Sanchez, who’s paused by them on the way to her car. 

“Hitting the road,” Bucky answers, hooking a thumb through the strap of his backpack. A disappointingly vague answer.

“How wonderful! Do you need me to pick up your mail for you?”

“Oh sure, Mrs. Sanchez, if you don’t mind that’d be awfully helpful. We don’t get much, so it shouldn’t be any trouble.” 

“It’s no problem at all,” Mrs. Sanchez insists. “Just drop by when you get home and I’ll have it for you. Won’t even nose through it, cross my heart,” she says with a little wink, and when Bucky laughs it startles Steve for an instant. He smiles though, sure that he looks too sour, standing there twisting the hem of his shirt as he looks between Bucky and their neighbor. “Send us a postcard—and Steve, you drive safe!”

She wags a stern finger at Steve, who tries for his best reassuring smile. “Will do, Mrs. Sanchez.”

As she totters off to her car with another wave and a smile, Steve turns to Bucky and nods his head at the motorcycle, a question. Bucky nods back as answer, but that’s not what Steve was asking.

He takes a breath, steels himself, and asks, “Where are we going, Buck?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one driving, Steve.”

And before Steve can protest, Bucky gives him that broad, toothy grin again. The worry pitted in his stomach ebbs, and he decides—what the hell? Why not? Steve pulls his helmet on and swings a leg over the bike. Bucky settles in behind him, and he cranks the engine to life.

 

The morning is slow by New York standards as Steve heads west toward the expressway. The sounds of the city are subdued but still present this early, the last few morning commuters on their way to work before the mid-morning lull. The sun is out, but it’s Bucky wrapped tight around him that keeps the cold of the breeze at bay. He’s holding on maybe too tight for how slowly they’re crawling up the streets, arms laced and fingers digging in under Steve’s ribs. But with the rumble of the bike beneath him and Bucky’s hips flush behind his own, he’s not about to complain. Bucky has his chin hooked over Steve’s shoulder, their helmets bumping together with the bike’s movement.

He thought he’d take the southbound expressway, the way he’d go to get to D.C., but Steve finds himself on the northbound ramp heading toward the bridge instead. Bucky gives his hip an encouraging squeeze. In a few minutes, they’re taking the loop onto the Brooklyn Bridge. The East River stretches out below on either side of the bridge, glinting in the morning sunlight. Across the water, lower Manhattan sprawls, teeming with life.

Steve glances back just once as the bike rolls down off the bridge. It’s hard to see much of anything, what with the helmet in the way. He can just barely catch a glimpse. Bucky snakes his right hand up and lays it over Steve’s heart, and the pressure makes it so he can feel it beating in his chest. He turns his eyes back to the road and takes Canal Street across downtown to the Holland Tunnel. Then they’re crossing under the Hudson and out, west, away, gone.

 

Traffic is touch-and-go on the way out of the city, but once they hit I-78, the road opens up wide and welcoming. Steve finds himself driving faster than he normally would, maybe faster than is strictly safe. But what’s safe to him, to Bucky? They only wear helmets so they don’t get pulled over. He weaves in and out of cars, hurtling down the southbound lane. Without any direction, any destination in mind, the interstate turns into a thrill ride for him in a way it never has before. He gives in to the feeling.

When he’d first started driving again after coming out of the ice, he had avoided the interstates as much as he could. Like most things in the modern world, they were new and different and fast-paced in a way he wasn’t sure he cared to learn about. Up till then, most of his driving he’d done through bombed-out towns or on battlefields. It wasn’t until Natasha pointed out that dodging bullets on a bike was probably a lot harder than driving on the freeway ever could be that he started taking the on-ramps. As it turns out, the interstate isn’t a fraction as bad as driving in the city. But even then, it’s not like he ever had many places to go.

Now, though, now: he gets it, he understands the call of it like a siren song. He could ride all day, all night, straight through till morning—till he hit the horizon. He can feel Bucky’s heartbeat against his back where he’s pressed up close, and he knows he feels it too. The thumping rhythm, snug against his spine, lurches and quickens each time Steve’s does, in tandem. Bucky snakes his hands into Steve’s jacket pockets, and the way his fingers curl into Steve’s stomach through the jacket lining feels like encouragement. The way Bucky rocks his hips, the tiniest movement, is a challenge.

Steve rises to it, and the speedometer creeps toward the triple digits. The landscape falls away into a greenish blur around them.

Three hours into it, though, Bucky pulls a hand free. He squeezes Steve’s arm before pointing to a sign that reads REST STOP – 1 MILE. Steve reluctantly slows. When they reach the exit, he turns the bike down it. He slides into a spot and pops the kickstand, cutting the engine off. 

Bucky eases off behind him a little awkwardly. In the rearview mirror, Steve watches as he pulls his helmet off, yanking the tie out of his hair to shake it out.

“You getting off, or did you and the bike become one somewhere back in Jersey?” Bucky goads him, meeting his eye in the mirror with a smirk.

Steve pockets the keys and slips off the bike. He tugs his helmet off, setting it on the seat and running a hand through what’s undoubtedly horrible helmet hair. Bucky puts his helmet down, too, his hair falling into his face. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright and inquisitive when he looks back up at Steve.

“You hungry?” he asks, swinging his backpack off his shoulders. He props it on the fender and unzips a front pocket. “I gotta piss, and I’m starving.”

Steve just stares at him, and his heart pulses loud and solid. He can still feel the wind whipping at him, feel the blood rushing underneath his skin.

Bucky extracts two protein bars from the pocket. “Aha!” He turns to Steve with a triumphant smile, but it catches and falters when he sees his face. He holds up one of the packages tentatively. “Steve? Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” Steve rumbles. He makes out like he’s reaching for the bar, but he grabs at Bucky’s wrist instead, hauling him close and winding Bucky’s arm around his waist. He tangles his other hand in Bucky’s hair, and then he kisses him full on the mouth for the whole interstate to see. Bucky makes a little surprised noise, but he relaxes under Steve’s hands and kisses him back quickly enough. Too soon though, he realizes Steve’s intentions—made very plain by Steve shoving his thigh between Bucky’s legs—and pulls back.

“Whoa there, pal,” he laughs, stepping backward out of the embrace. “Unless you plan on doing me in the bathroom like some truck stop hooker, you better relax for a minute.”

Steve scowls at him for half a second before it dawns on him that that had been exactly the half-baked plan in his head. Maybe the call of the road is too much for him. He huffs a laugh, smiling and shaking his head at his own ridiculousness. “Sorry,” he offers.

“Don’t worry, Steve, it ain’t just you.”

Steve looks at him quizzically.

“I’ve been half-hard since we hit Pennsylvania, or hadn’t you noticed?”

Steve does laugh then, really laughs, hand gripping at his stomach. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he scrapes out breathlessly.

Bucky smiles fondly at him. “C’mon, let’s make use of the facilities the way they were intended and then rest a minute. My legs are half-numb, not to mention my—“

Steve smacks his shoulder just in time as an older lady with two young girls dawdling behind her pass them on the sidewalk. The lady shoots them a suspicious look. Bucky rolls his eyes, reaching out to shove the protein bars in Steve’s jacket pocket. He hauls his backpack up again, and grabs Steve’s hand before setting off up the path to the bathrooms.

Fifteen minutes later, they’re sprawled across the grass with their heads piled on Bucky’s lumpy backpack. It makes for an okay pillow. Steve takes another bite of his bar, his free hand brushing lightly over blades of grass. The sky is still so clear, and he feels content.

“I wonder how much dog pee we’re lying on right now.”

Bucky snorts a laugh and knocks his shoulder into Steve’s. “I don’t wanna think about that.”

“I don’t either, but I am, and I didn’t wanna be thinking about it alone,” Steve counters.

“Where are we anyhow?” Bucky asks.

Steve sits up and looks around like he might be able to tell from the nondescript section of interstate that is their view. “Somewhere in Pennsylvania still, I think. We just passed—what was it, Carlisle? That’s in Pennsylvania, right?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Thought you knew everything.”

“Nah, that’s your M.O. I only know the important shit.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve laughs. Bucky nudges him with an elbow, and they settle into comfortable silence for a minute.

There’s not much to look at. This part of Pennsylvania’s flatter than paper, so even if Steve tries to look past the semi-trucks obscuring most of his view, all that’s beyond them is a bunch of trees. The forest behind them is pretty in an unobtrusive kind of way. The two redbuds outside the building are blooming pink, working towards green, but the prettiest thing Steve can see is the person lying beside him.

Steve looks over his shoulder at Bucky. He’s got his eyes closed, chewing thoughtfully on a bite of protein bar. If Steve didn’t know to look for it, for the minute signs, he’d think he was totally relaxed. But he can see where Bucky’s free hand lies poised on his thigh, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his breath is just shy of deep. His face is smoothed over though, and his eyes are closed. Steve knows that means Bucky trusts him to be his eyes right now. So he looks, takes stock, glances over his shoulder into the woods—but there’s just a few families stretching, a man letting his scrap of a dog pee on a bush. Nothing to worry about. The sound of cars rushing down the interstate washes over everything, and the sunlight warms his skin. Steve isn’t worried.

He takes another bite of his protein bar and barely suppresses his gag reflex. “Buck?”

“Yeah?” Bucky sits up, too quickly.

“These things taste like ass,” Steve laments, waving his mostly uneaten bar around.

Bucky snorts roughly and opens his mouth to say something, but he snaps it closed and shakes his head. “You know what? That’s too easy. That’s not even low-hanging fruit, that apple’s just right on the damn ground.”

Steve flushes and thumps him in the shoulder, trundling back to his original point. “I don’t see how you eat them all the time.”

Bucky shrugs. “Quick calories.”

“We got a need to be quick right now?”

Bucky grins sideways at him. “Guess not,” he drawls, before hauling himself up off the ground. He extends a hand to Steve. “Come on, I saw some vending machines inside.”

“Okay, but stop me before I eat so much snack mix that I burst.”

“Sorry, pal, I’ll be dead from fruit gummy overdose before that happens.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Piedmont gives way to the foothills and soon, they’re truly in the mountains. The Pennsylvania state line disappears in the rear view mirror, and Maryland passes in the blink of an eye. The Shenandoah Valley yawns miles wide on either side of the road, vast and sweeping. Steve slows without realizing it, looking to his left and right almost as much as he watches the road before him. He can feel Bucky shifting behind him, no longer attached so tightly. He must be doing the same thing, taking it in. Steve’s only been out to the Catskills once or twice, and then of course he saw plenty of mountains in Europe, but there’s not much time to admire the view when you’ve got a critical mission the next morning. Steve is a city boy in body and blood, but he can see the appeal of the countryside, why people would want to live here. The afternoon light kisses the ridges and valleys, and in this early springtime, everything is crisp shades of green.

The sun starts to dip close to the horizon, turning the sky to watercolor pink and orange. Bucky squeezes the crease of Steve’s thigh, leaning forward till their helmets bump. Steve can just hear him over the roar of the engine and the wind.

“We should stop,” he yells.

Steve takes one hand off the bars to give him a thumbs up. A few miles down, he pulls off at a random exit, one that had signs for motels. He heads left and finds a place, somewhere cheap and a little worse for wear. That’s about their only option here, wherever here is. It’s not much, but it will do. God knows they’ve both had worse than a rundown freeway motel. 

As soon as Steve is parked, Bucky climbs off the back and plucks his helmet off. He drops his backpack on the ground and bends into a forward fold, his knuckles brushing against the dirty pavement.

“That bad, huh?” Steve chuckles as he dismounts, pulling his own helmet off.

Bucky straightens and rolls his shoulders, rotating his neck left and then right. Steve’s smirk only deepens as he hears Bucky’s joints creaking and popping. Bucky levels him with a dark look.

“You can’t tell me you aren’t stiff as a board too. We’ve been on that thing all day,” he grumbles, pointing an accusatory finger at the motorcycle.

“Hey,” Steve protests, “no insulting my baby.” He strokes a loving hand over the chrome handlebars, and it’s only halfway a joke. He does really love this bike.

Bucky quirks an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “Thought I was your baby.”

Steve’s expression sours. “Ew, Jesus, have I ever called you that? Please tell me I’ve never called you that.”

Bucky smirks. “No, you haven’t, but there’s been a slew of other ones. Sweetheart, sugar, honey—“

“Okay, okay,” Steve relents, throwing up his hands, but he’s laughing too. He reaches for the saddlebag to grabs his things. Bucky gathers up his backpack again and the two helmets. Bag over his shoulder, Steve steps up close to him. The light of the setting sun casts a warm glow over him, and helmet hair or no, Bucky puts the Blue Ridge Mountains to shame.

“Let’s go get a room, sweetheart,” Steve says, almost surprised by how easy it sounds. If he’s going to play along with whatever this is, of course he’s all in. But it’s strange to find how unbothered by it he is right now, by the not knowing. It’s nice to just be here. He brushes a stray strand of hair out of Bucky’s eyes, tucking it behind his ear. His hand lingers against Bucky’s neck.

Bucky leans in and presses a kiss against his lips. He pulls away slowly and stays close while he purrs, “Sure thing, cutie-pie.”

Steve’s cheeks heat up as he mutters, “That better not turn into a thing.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely turning into a thing, snickerdoodle,” Bucky says as he turns and strides toward the doors.

“I hate you,” Steve replies, but follows after him anyway.

“You love me.”

“Shut up.”

 

The woman at the front desk does a poor job of hiding her shock when Bucky insists on a single bed. It eats at Steve to think that, for all the progress this country has made, this is still a point of contention. It seems like such a non-issue to him. It rarely is an issue anymore in his life, but he supposes he might take that blessing for granted. 

He thinks they might get turned away— _ Sorry, we’re actually booked solid _ —till Bucky drops the charm and gets unpleasant about it. The woman quickly acquiesces under his glare. When she asks how he’d like to pay, Bucky produces a roll of cash out of a pocket of his backpack.

Steve raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Bucky doesn’t offer any explanation, which isn’t surprising considering they’re not alone. But it still raises a flag—not a red one necessarily, but it is troublesome. He must have paid the same way at the gas station while Steve waited outside. Steve’s starting to think he must have two of everything in that bag like some kind of Noah’s Ark for emergency supplies. 

He pays, the woman hands him two keys cards, and then Bucky grabs Steve by the hand and hurries him to the elevators. Inside, Bucky leans against the wall and rubs at his eyes.

“I thought we left all that shit back in the last century.”

Steve sighs. “It’s alright, Buck. It doesn’t matter.” And it doesn’t, truly. There was a time in his life where Steve would’ve berated that woman for being a bigot, but there are bigger concerns than one ignorant hotel receptionist in podunk nowhere. It’s not worth the effort.

Bucky’s eyes flicker open, and for an instant they’re still sharp. But the longer he looks at Steve—perpetually feather-ruffled Steve, completely undisturbed by it—he softens and settles. The elevator dings and slides open on the third floor. 

“Right,” Bucky agrees, hitching his pack more firmly on his shoulder. “Perspective, or whatever.”

Steve follows him down the short hallway to their room, where Bucky slides the card into the door. He pauses before opening it, staring at the number on the door. “Kinda wish she’d given us a room on the first floor though.”

“Why’s that?”

A wicked smile curves over his whole face as he turns the handle. “So she’d have to hear it when we fuck.”

“Bucky!” Steve screeches. He shoves him through the door, tumbling after him, mysterious wad of cash forgotten for now.

 

He wakes up slowly in the morning. The blankets got shoved halfway down the bed at some point during the night, tangled up around his knees. He’s warm though, with Bucky starfished on his stomach across the whole mattress, half on top of him. With the blackout curtains drawn, the room is as dark as it was at midnight. Steve might think it’s still midnight if he weren’t so well rested, a true full night’s sleep like he hasn’t had in awhile. It could be well past noon. It wouldn’t surprise him if it were.

Steve wraps his arms more snugly around Bucky’s middle and hauls him in closer. Bucky’s breath whiffles against Steve’s neck, and the tangled mess of his hair tickles at Steve’s chin—but he doesn’t mind. He presses a gentle kiss to the crown of Bucky’s head and closes his eyes to doze a while longer.

It doesn’t last another minute though. Steve may lurch toward wakefulness, but Bucky springs to life all at once most mornings. This one is no different. Steve feels him shift, tense, then relax on top of him in quick succession. Then Bucky lifts himself up on an arm and peers down at Steve. His eyes are clear, bright, morning sky blue. Steve smiles lazily up at him.

“Good morning,” he says.

Bucky smacks a kiss against his forehead. “Morning, flower blossom.”

He darts off the bed and out of swatting range before Steve can even blink. As he disappears into the bathroom, Steve settles back down into the mattress and closes his eyes. He must fall back asleep because next thing he knows, he rolls over right into Bucky’s lap.

“Oh, is it that kind of morning?” Bucky teases, carding his fingers through Steve’s hair. Steve huffs and throws an arm over Bucky’s thigh, effectively spooning his legs. Bucky’s stroking turns into insistent prodding. “Come on, Stevie, time to rise and shine—or rise, at least.”

Steve maneuvers into a sitting position at a glacial pace, stifling a yawn behind one hand. The bathroom light and the muted television cast a strange, flickering glow over the room. “What time is it anyway?”

“Quarter past seven.”

“Ugh,” Steve grumbles, slouching sideways till his head falls on Bucky’s shoulder. He’s up this early usually, out running or back home and in the shower already. But it feels different here, like his engine can’t quite turn over and start no matter how rested he feels. “Do I have to?”

“Don’t be a brat,” Bucky admonishes, but he reaches a hand around to pat Steve’s cheek sweetly. “Get up and get dressed. We’ve got a decision to make.”

“What’s that?”

“Listen. Can you hear that?”

Steve listens, for what he’s not sure—but then he hears it. The unmistakable patter of rain. He sits up properly, and Bucky points to the television. He has it turned to the weather channel, where an undulating mass of green sweeps across a map of the eastern U.S.

“I don’t suppose you have any rain suits in your back,” Steve says.

Bucky chirps a laugh. “No, I don’t.”

Steve turns his head and kisses at Bucky’s shoulder. “And I don’t guess I could convince you to just stay in bed with me till it stops.”

“These sheets chafed me enough already, so no,” Bucky says. Then he climbs out of bed, dragging Steve along with him. 

 

They make the decision quickly enough. It’s one of two options really. Option one: Stick it out in the dingy motel long enough for the storm to pass. As much as Steve would like to stay in bed, this particular bed is terrible, so they both veto that one. Then there’s option two: Get a car. It makes sense to Steve. Were they really planning on riding the bike the whole way? However far the whole way is—he’s not even sure if they have a destination in mind. If Bucky has one, he corrects himself. But as much as he loves the bike, driving all day on it gets tiring, and it’s mostly a silent affair. Even with a scenic view, it’d be boring after a while.

Bucky finds a used car dealership up the road. After checking out of their room, they brave the weather on the bike for just long enough to get there. In a flurry, Steve stashes their helmets on the seat and throws the cover overtop, and then they dash into the small office building. They stand in the lobby, dripping on the floor and laughing softly, though Steve’s not quite sure what’s so funny. 

“Hello there, fellas!” a voice calls. A man ducks out of a cubicle and flashes a showy smile at them. He’s squat and barrel-chested, wearing a suit that’s too snug around his chest and too loose everywhere else. He approaches them cheerily, smoothing down a greying mustache with one hand. “How can I help you today?”

“We need a long-bed pick-up on the cheap,” Bucky says, rattling off the kind of vehicle they had agreed upon at the hotel. The man raises his eyebrows, but his smile only wavers for an instant.  

“I like a man who knows what he wants,” the man says. “I’m Daniel Withers, but you can just call me Dan.” He offers a hand to Bucky and winks.

Steve bites his lip to suppress a snicker. Bucky takes Dan’s hand firmly in his right and reaches his left back to pinch Steve’s hip, firmer. Steve swats at his hand, but he gets the idea and shuts up.

“Jim Grant,” Bucky lies smoothly, withdrawing his hand. He glances at Steve, who doesn’t bat an eyelash. He trusts Bucky to take the lead here; he’ll follow where he goes. “This is Roger Buchanan,” Bucky introduces him, and Steve shakes Dan’s hand too, smiling almost too wide. 

“Pleased to meet you both,” Dan flatters. “Y’all two cousins or something?”

Steve can’t suppress his laugh this time. Jesus, the number of times they’ve been asked that very question. Though he supposes, they are in Virginia. Or is it West Virginia that has that stereotype? Bucky glares sideways at him like he knows exactly what Steve’s thinking, but Steve can see the twitch of his cheek that belies his amusement. 

Steve says, “Something like that, yeah.”

“Do you have what we’re looking for?” Bucky barrels on, all business. 

“Sure, sure, I’ve got a few options for you,” Dan says, turning away from them. “Let me grab us some umbrellas, and we’ll go have a look-see around the lot.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Dan pauses with his hand on the handle of garish orange umbrella. “Won’t be necessary?”

“No,” Bucky answers. He smiles benignly. “Whatever’s the cheapest thing you have that can haul that—” He points through the window to the bike outside. “—that’s all we need.”

Dan glances between them, flummoxed. Bucky looks to Steve, who nods confirmation of what Bucky said. “Well, alrighty then,” Dan caves. He shuffles around behind the front desk and sits behind it, gesturing for them to take the chairs on the other side. They do.

Dan taps at the computer for a few minutes and apologizes for how slow it is. Bucky just settles comfortably into his chair, his backpack resting against his calves. Steve mirrors his position, affectedly casual.

“Looks like we’ve got an F-150 for two grand,” Dan says, angling the monitor so they can see a grainy picture of a dingy truck. Dull turquoise with a thick band of white around the middle, it looks like it came right off a farm. With where they are, it very well might have. As long as it doesn’t smell like cow poop, Steve thinks that’s just fine.

“Looks great,” Bucky says, already reaching for his backpack. 

“Now hold on a minute,” Dan chastises. The grisly grey of his brow casts his eyes into shadow as he lays a hand on the desk and leans toward them. “It’s a 1990 model with over 200,000 miles on it. We’ve got much better stock if you’re really looking for—”

“Is the bed long enough to fit the bike?” Bucky interjects. Steve can see that he’s getting impatient.

“Well, sure,” Dan says.

“Great, we’ll take it,” he says, hauling his bag up into his lap to dig into the bottom of it.

Dan scratches his chin. “Don’t you wanna … see it, at least? Before you buy?”

“Nope,” Bucky says. He extracts his right hand from the bag and slaps something small on the table. Steve leans forward to peer at it—a driver’s license, with the fake name Bucky had given printed on it, Massachusetts issue. Well, shit. Steve glances at Bucky, raising a questioning eyebrow, but Bucky doesn’t meet his eye. He supposes it’s not that unusual for Bucky to have a fake I.D. He may have had it for a long time now. 

Does he have another card in there with the name Roger Buchanan on it? Steve isn’t sure he wants to ask. He doesn’t know what it would mean if Bucky did. Or maybe he does—but surely Bucky would’ve said something by now if it was like that. Steve trusts him. Bucky wouldn’t take advantage of that. He decides not to worry about it.

Dan plucks the license off the desk to look it over, glancing between Bucky and the tiny picture of him. “That’s you alright, Jim,” Dan says.

“Sure is,” Bucky grins. He pulls a wad of cash out of his jacket pocket and starts counting out bills. Dan huffs in surprise and leans back in his seat, the plastic protesting under the movement. He casts a furtive glance at Steve, who just shrugs because he knows as much about it as Dan does.

“Now, Dan,” Bucky starts, “can you do eighteen hundred if I pay in cash?”

 

Steve follows Bucky on the bike to a hardware store down the road. After picking up what they need inside, they pull both vehicles around to an empty lot behind the store next door. It wouldn’t do to have any witnesses as Steve lifts the 700-pound bike into the truck bed. From inside the bed, Bucky helps maneuver it into the wheel chock he’d already installed. The rain has let up momentarily, just a fine mist as Steve secures his bike with ratchet straps. Bucky gives it a shake to test, turning to Steve with a smile when it stays steady. He hops lightly down from the bed.

“Big breakfast, small lunch or small breakfast, big lunch?” Bucky asks.

“What kind of question is that?” Steve teases.

Bucky rolls his eyes and shoves Steve towards the passenger door. “Come on, you big lug. Let’s go eat ten thousand omelets.”

They don’t quite manage ten thousand, but the waiter does balk at the size of their order.

 

Bucky takes the first shift, merging back onto I-81. They drive south through a whole lot of nothing. Southwest Virginia seems to be mostly farm country.

“I spy with my little eye,” Steve drawls.

“If you say a cow or a tree one more time, I’m making you drive the rest of the way,” Bucky growls.

Steve laughs so hard he falls forward a little bit. “Ain’t my fault there’s nothing else to look at, Buck. I’m just trying to keep entertained out on the great open road.”

“Well, I’m trying to drive in this rain, so you’ll just have to entertain yourself.” That only sets Steve off laughing again. Bucky curls his hands more firmly around the steering wheel. He’s doing an impressive job of feigning annoyance, Steve thinks.

“So you’re only good at multitasking when it benefits you?” he jokes.

“I know the scientists said you didn’t age while you were in the ice, but did they check if you’d gone backwards? I think you might be twelve years old again.” Bucky glares at him hotly, but when he turns his eyes back to the road, Steve can see his cheek twitching. He’s close to breaking. Steve turns sideways in his seat and stretches one foot across the bench seat. He prods at Bucky’s thigh with socked toes.

“Bucky,” he whines petulantly, drawing out the vowels. “I’m  _ bored _ , Buck.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky sighs, pushing Steve’s feet off the seat. But when he meets Steve’s eye, the smile cracks through. “Anybody ever tell you how annoying you are?”

“Only everyone that ever knew me,” Steve says.

Bucky laughs then, tipping his head back against the seat. “Steve, doll face,” Bucky starts, “turn on the radio or something. Listen to that old people station and learn to act your age.”

“Hey, don’t knock public radio,” Steve chides. He reaches forward to fiddle with the dial.

 

Past the Tennessee border, they stop off to get gas and lunch. Steve takes over the wheel then. The rain has mostly passed them by, but truth be told he’s glad they have the truck anyway. It smells like old cigarettes and the engine wheezes like it’s the one that smoked them, but the windows and radio are a plus. Steve cruises down the road at the speed limit. He still hasn’t asked Bucky if he has a fake driver’s license for him too, or whether they even have the car’s registration. “Better safe than sorry” isn’t his usual philosophy, but he’s not looking for another brush with the law right now.

Bucky tucks up into the passenger seat, wedged into the corner made by the seat and the door. He reads quietly for a while, but eventually he sets his book to the side. He fetches his headphones out of the backpack stowed on the floorboard and slides them on. He stares out the window at the rolling green hills, rocking his head just slightly to whatever he’s listening to, thumb nail wedged firmly between his teeth.

Steve listens to the radio at first, but shuts it off when the program dives into political analysis. Driving in silence is peaceful and serene for about ten minutes. Then it’s boring.

“Hey, Buck.”

No answer.

“Bucky,” Steve says louder this time.

Bucky keeps tapping out a beat against his thigh, oblivious. How loud does he have that turned up, anyway? Steve grabs a hard candy out the package on the bench that they’d picked up from the gas station. He lobs it at Bucky’s nose. Bucky jerks back and it dings off the window instead, ricocheting across the car and landing in the floorboard. Bucky turns to him with wide eyes.

“What the hell?” he asks, too loud over his music.

“You could share,” Steve says.

“What?” Bucky reaches for the player and taps at the volume control.

“You could share,” Steve repeats and points to the player.

Bucky pulls the headphones down to hang around his neck. “There’s not an auxiliary port in here.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Henry Ford?”

“You’re the one who bought the truck without looking at it.”

Bucky huffs a sigh.

“That thing has speakers, doesn’t it?” Steve asks.

“I mean, yeah, but they’re tinny as hell. What happened to your beloved public radio?”

“Got too political—and  _ don’t _ go there.” Steve glares at Bucky, whose mouth hangs open to no doubt make some comment about Steve’s mild hypocrisy. “I’m trying to have a good day. I want to hear what you’re listening to.”

“Sure, fine,” Bucky relents. He sets his headphones to the side and dials the volume back up on his device. With a smirking glance at Steve, he hits play. The cab fills with the opening twangs of a song Steve doesn’t recognize. He raises his eyebrows, mouth twisting into a surprised grimace.

“This is … jangly,” he comments. “Is that a banjo? And a violin?”

“Fiddle, in this context,” Bucky nods. “And mandolin, and guitar. There’s a lot going on.” He turns to Steve with a quirked eyebrow, like he’s daring him to say something bad about it.

Steve purses his lips and listens through the chorus, some positive message about leaving the past in the past. It’s charming in its simplicity, he supposes. “I didn’t know you liked music like this.”

“When in Rome.” Bucky shrugs.

“We’re in east Tennessee,” Steve says, frowning.

“Exactly.” Bucky turns to grin at him. Steve just keeps frowning, and Bucky’s smile turns disbelieving. “Shit, Steve, don’t you know anything about music? Or ain’t you listened to anything but ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ since ‘41?” His own joke tickles him, and his head thumps back against the window as he laughs.

“I know some stuff,” Steve bickers. “You know that I never had much taste. I always just listened to what was on the radio, or whatever you had playing on the Victrola.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, staring out the window like he’s reminiscing. It’s true—Steve knew about three songs that he really liked, but the rest of it was just a lot of noise to him. Not bad noise, just not anything he had a lot of interest in, not the way Buck did. Whatever pocket change Bucky didn’t spend on cigarettes or candy, he spent on 50-cent records. He had a whole box of 78s by the time he was 16. Half of the small bookshelf in their shared apartment was devoted to his collection. Steve had been pretty sure a good third of them were worn out, but Bucky never threw any of them away. He always had something playing whenever he was home. Steve always listened. It was always good, even in his unrefined opinion.

“What about now? What do you listen to now?” Bucky asks. He pivots in the seat so his back is to the door, peering curiously at Steve across the cab.

“Not much,” Steve answers truthfully. “Talk programs on the radio, mostly. You’ve always got the—“ Steve mimes the headphones with his hands, then gives a little shrug.

“Yeah, well, the sound system in your apartment is godawful,” Bucky says.

Steve frowns and looks at him for a long beat, as long as he can without swerving off the road, till he pinpoints what about that sentence made him uncomfortable.

“Our apartment, Buck,” he corrects slowly. “You can get a new sound system for our apartment if you want one.”

“Sure, yeah,” Bucky answers distractedly. There’s a little crease on his forehead. Steve’s not sure what to do about it. “Let me play you something different.”

Steve hadn’t noticed the music had gone quiet after the first song. Bucky frowns down at his player, scrolling through the library. Eventually he settles on something and clicks play. Steve cringes immediately, too revolted to even be polite about the bubbly cacophony pouring out of the small speakers.

“Oh, Buck, please don’t tell me you actually like this.” Steve takes one hand off the wheel and covers his right ear with it. The left one works now, though—has for years, he still forgets sometimes—so it doesn’t help.

Bucky laughs and kicks a leg up on the seat. “’Course not, I’m just yanking your chain,” he says, but when Steve glances over at him, he looks curiously guilty. “Try this.” 

He switches it to another song, and Steve relaxes back into his seat. He listens to it for a minute, to the thumping bass line and the layered vocals of the chorus.

“I can see why you like this,” Steve says over the second verse.

“Oh yeah?” Bucks asks. He’s wiggling his shoulders a little, car dancing. “Why’s that, stud muffin?”

“It sounds all space age,” Steve says, purposely ignoring the pet name. He’s decided that if he doesn’t fight them, Bucky might drop it. He won’t, Steve knows, but a guy can hope.

“All space age?” Bucky asks, grinning. He grooves more freely, getting his arms and the rest of his torso involved. Steve gets into it a little too, bopping his head along to the beat. “You might be right. The eighties had a lot of that.”

“You know a lot of eighties music?”

“Sure, there’s a lot of good shit from then. A lot of bad shit, too, but I guess that’s about how every decade is.”

Steve nods like he knows what Bucky’s talking about. Bucky smirks at him knowingly as the song fades out.

“Try this on,” Bucky says, clicking the player again. “It’s a Dylan cover—Bob Dylan? Do you know him?”

“The times, they are a-changin’,” Steve answers, half-crooning.

“There just might be hope for you yet, love bug.” He presses the play button and sets the device on the dashboard. Bucky settles back against the door to watch Steve as the song starts up, snare drum and gentle chords on an electric guitar over a plucking bass line. Steve doesn’t think much of it till the vocals kick in. A sultry alto voice drips like honey into the cab, sweet and rich. As the singing swells into the chorus, Steve feels a smile creeping onto his face. It sounds old, almost, but new too. He can picture himself sitting at the bar, swirling a drink in some dark dance hall, watching Bucky swing some dame around with ease. Or maybe dancing with him instead, Steve stepping all over his toes.

“I like this,” Steve says emphatically. He glances at Bucky, who smiles softly at him.

“I’ve got your number, Steve,” Bucky says simply. He stretches his leg out till his foot is in Steve’s lap. Steve rests a hand over his ankle, rubbing circles with his thumb into the tendon and nodding his head along to the song.

 

The road flows into I-40, and now they’re headed west across the state. The mountains fade out into foothills and then fall even flatter as they approach the middle of the state. The rain lets up entirely by mid-afternoon. Everything looks shinier in its wake, the bright colors of early spring scrubbed clean again. Bucky leaves his headphones off, but he switched his player over to podcasts a while back because “I can’t give you a proper music history lesson with this thing, Steve, you gotta be able to  _ hear _ it.” Turns out Bucky’s podcast library is just as stacked as his music one.

“We should stop off in Nashville tonight,” Steve says.

“Aw, you getting tired already, Steve?” Bucky coos at him, tucking his notebook under his thigh. He’s been scribbling in it off and on most of the afternoon. Steve had beat back his curiosity with a stick, remembering how annoying it was when anyone would leer over his shoulder at unfinished sketches. Bucky would share if he wanted to.

“You drove for what? Three hours, before you begged off?” Steve reminds him.

Bucky drawls, “Yeah, and you’re too sweet on me to make me drive my fair share.”

Steve ignores that. “Anyways—Nashville.”

“What about it?”

“D’you remember when Clint came back from that mission and didn’t shut up about hot chicken for a good month?” Steve asks.

“Yeah?” Bucky says, narrowing his eyes. Steve gives him a look. “Oh wait, shit, was that in Nashville?”

“I got a pow’rful hankerin’ for some hot chicken,” Steve says in an abysmal attempt at a southern accent.

Bucky splutters out a laugh, reflexively smacking Steve on the shoulder. “I’ll buy you some if you promise to never talk like that again.”

“Thanks, sugar daddy,” Steve says and blows him a kiss.

Bucky flushes and flounders, “You’re—uh, welcome … I can’t think of one.”

Steve cackles, Bucky reaches over to swat the smug look off his face, and they keep driving.

 

Getting into Nashville is a bitch and a half because they hit it right at rush hour. Cars stack bumper to bumper across four lanes of southbound traffic, and Steve white knuckles the steering wheel for nearly two hours. By the time they make it to the restaurant, they’re both a little on edge. It’s as crowded as the freeway, so they take their order to go and sit in the truck to eat it.

“We should get more,” Bucky says, staring mournfully at the empty box in his lap.

Steve gives his stomach a firm pat, rubbing the flat of his palm over his shirt. He nods. “Yeah, I could eat more.”

Bucky gives Steve money to go back inside, under strict orders to return with the largest order of chicken wings the place will serve him. It turns out to be a lot of chicken wings.

They head out with it in search of a hotel. In the nicer part of the worse part of town, they find somewhere nondescript and clean-looking. It’s nicer than last night’s place, though to call it “nice” might be a stretch. The room smells like lemon-scented cleaner and the sheets are stiff and scratchy, but the hot water is quick to come through the pipes and the mattress is alright. Steve flops down on it with their box of wings, already prying it open. Bucky eases down next to him, and they dig in.

Roughly twenty minutes later, Steve lies prone on the bed staring up at the popcorn ceiling. Used napkins and the empty carcass of the wing box litter the foot of the bed. Some terrible sitcom drones on the television, the repetitive canned laughter and his full belly lulling him toward sleep. Bucky sits up on the bed next to him, but Steve can’t tell from this angle if he’s watching the show or just staring at the wall. Either option seems possible—he’s just staring at the ceiling. Bucky reaches his hand over and trails his fingers through Steve’s hair. Steve pushes into it, so he tangles his hand more firmly in the hair, scratching at Steve’s scalp. It reminds Steve a little of the way you’d pet a dog, but it’s nice. He can see why dogs like it so much.

Bucky pulls his hand away after a minute. Steve gives a plaintive puppy dog whine, tilting his head to look up at Bucky. He stares down at Steve. The light of the lamp reflects off the amused glint in his eyes.

“What, do I have something on my face?” Steve asks. He means it as a joke, but—

“You do, actually,” Bucky says. He smiles and points to the corner of his own mouth. Steve frowns and reaches up to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, but Bucky grabs it before he gets there. He knots their fingers together and pushes up, pressing Steve’s hand into the pillow above his head. Bucky shifts till he’s hovering over him, loose hair swirling down around his face in a dark tangle. He smirks. “Let me get that for you, dear heart.”

Steve sucks in a shallow breath, lips parting. He blinks slow at Bucky as he leans in. It’s just the lightest brush of lips, the ghost of a kiss across his mouth before Bucky pulls back a few inches. He meets Steve’s eye, and the look on his face shifts from soft to devilish. Before Steve can think anything about it, Bucky swoops down and licks a broad stripe over his face. The flat of his tongue leaves a wet trail from Steve’s chin, over half his mouth, and up to his eyebrow.

“Bucky!” Steve protests, pushing at his chest with his free hand. “You’re disgusting!”

“I’m not the one with sauce all over his face. Pot, meet kettle,” Bucky chimes. Steve squirms under him as Bucky leans back in, tongue lolling out. He turns his face and shoves Bucky again, but Bucky grabs his hand and pins that one above his head too. He swings a leg over Steve’s waist till he’s straddling him, hovering just inches over his body.

“Or did you wanna be dirty? Because I can work with that,” Bucky purrs into his ear, two days’ worth of stubble brushing against Steve’s own rough cheek. Steve writhes underneath him, sighing and shuddering as Bucky mouths at the spot below his ear. He tries to twist his hands free, and Bucky leans into them for a moment before releasing him. Steve gets his hands in Bucky’s hair, knotting fistfuls between his fingers. With his grip, he coaxes Bucky off his jaw and over to his mouth. Their lips connect, and Bucky licks languidly into his mouth, sighing softly. He tastes like hot sauce. Steve skirts a hand down to cup Bucky’s jaw. He can feel it working under his palm as Bucky steals the breath right out of his lungs. They kiss slow, unhurried kisses, pausing only to haul in ragged breaths before diving back into each other. Steve feels full to burst with contentment and a low-burning flame of desire for the man above him.

But when Bucky shifts his weight and drags a heavy hand down Steve’s torso, Steve groans—and not in a way that means anything good. Bucky must hear the tone of it. He breaks the kiss and shifts back onto his knees, staring down at Steve with a frown. He gives Steve’s stomach another experimental prod.

“ _ Ugh _ ,” Steve moans, batting his hand away. Apparently it’s not just lust and happiness filling him up. He grips his stomach and rolls onto his side as much as he can with Bucky bracketing his hips. He smushes his face into the pillow and whines pitifully. Bucky pushes at his shoulder till he flops back over. The jostling movement makes him feel green around the gills.

“What’s up, champ? You sick?” Bucky asks. He presses the back of his hand against Steve’s forehead, the way he’s done a thousand times before, frowning as he feels for a fever.

“ _ No _ ,” Steve says. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly. “I just ate so much I feel like I’m gonna puke.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. He huffs a wry chuckle. “You can just tell me if you don’t want it right now, Steve. Won’t even hurt my feelings.”

Steve blinks his eyes open and scowls up at him. “What? No, I  _ want _ it,” he declares. To make his point, he grabs at Bucky’s hips and pushes him till he’s seated snug over Steve’s crotch. It’s very apparent how much he wants it. “I do want you,” he say, softer.

Bucky narrows his eyes at him.

“I’m just so fucking stuffed to the brim that I can’t  _ move _ .” He drops his head back down against the mattress with a withering sigh. Bucky shakes his head at him, unsympathetic. Steve asks, “Are you not?”

“Unlike some people, I remember how to pace myself so I don’t get sick, thank you,” Bucky says.

“Asshole.” Steve swats at his thigh halfheartedly. Bucky grins down at him, proud about it as ever. Then he shifts off him and curls up at Steve’s side, laying his arm lightly across Steve’s stomach. He rubs soothing circles into its slight distension.

“That’s okay, chicken dumpling,” Bucky says. Steve winds his arm around Bucky’s shoulders and pulls him tight against his side. Bucky cranes up to press a gentle kiss against his jaw. “I ain’t gonna die if I don’t get some tonight, don’t feel bad about it.”

Steve does feel a little bad about it though. With Bucky pressed so close to him, he can feel Bucky’s continued interest in getting some against his hip. “If you wanted, you could—“ Steve says, shifting his hip so it drags a little over Bucky’s dick.

“Mmm,” Bucky sighs, his eyes fluttering closed. “As appealing as rubbing myself off against your leg like we’re sixteen sounds …” His hand glides from Steve’s stomach down to grip at his hip and stop the movement. He shifts his own hips back an inch so Steve can’t feel him anymore. “Think I’ll pass.”

“You sure?” Steve asks. Bucky nods against his chest. “You could put it in me, I’d probably be okay if I didn’t have to do any of the work …”

Bucky sighs sharply. “Steve. Jesus. Shut the fuck up,” he snaps.

Steve does, and his heart sinks a little. The room is thickly silent for a beat.

Bucky sighs again, longer and gentler this time. He props himself up on his elbow so he can look at Steve, who just stares at the ceiling again. “Steve, honey,” he says. Bucky pinches his thigh till Steve looks at him. “The possibility of having to clean up your puke kinda ruins the mood, sugar plum.”

He cracks a wry smile, and Steve rolls his eyes at him fondly. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Let’s just go to sleep. I’m tired as hell anyway,” Bucky says. He fishes the remote out of the comforter and flicks the television off. Steve moves enough to get them both under the covers. Bucky leans across him and cuts out the light before cuddling up to his side again. 


	3. Chapter 3

The whirring of the air conditioner kicking on drags Steve to the edge of consciousness. He lingers there for a moment, teetering between sleep and wakefulness. The room is dark, the middle of the night, only the barest suggestion of light creeping in from the lights in the parking lot. Bucky lays sprawled halfway on top of him, as per usual, one leg tangled between Steve’s and his flesh hand gripping at Steve’s shoulder. He breathes hot and open-mouthed against Steve’s clavicle, and Steve times his own breaths with Bucky’s in the dark.

But they get shallower and quicker, and soon Steve can’t keep up with the pace. Bucky’s fingers dig uncomfortably hard into his shoulder, nails catching on the bone. Bucky’s breathing goes ragged and loud, uneven. He twitches hard. Steve winds his arms around Bucky’s middle and holds him close. Bucky whines in his sleep. He shivers, and Steve runs broad strokes along his spine. He doesn’t know if it would be better or worse to wake him up. He never knows what to do when the nightmares come—not for himself, and certainly not for Bucky.

With a low, pained noise, Bucky’s whole body shudders from head to toe. The whine in the back of his throat builds into a mutter, until he’s choking out, “No,  _ no _ , don’t  _ please _ —“ He flinches like he’s been struck, recoiling and forcing Steve to loosen his grip on him. Steve’s hands fly up to his head, stroking at his hair, his face, anything to try and rouse him without shocking him.

Bucky jerks up, away, awake. In an instant he’s on hands and knees, leaning over Steve and breathing hard like he’s just run miles. Steve’s hands fell away when he moved. He raises one slowly to smooth the flyaway mess of Bucky’s hair, but Bucky jolts out of range. He rolls off and away from Steve, but his shaking makes the whole mattress tremble. Steve reaches for the lamp and flicks it on.

Bucky looks stricken and wild. His eyes are wide and unfocused, like he can’t quite see what’s in front of him. He looks frantic, frenetic, his hair a dark cloud of smoke around the burning expression on his face. Steve only sees it for an instant before Bucky hisses, _ hisses _ like a feral animal, and scrambles over Steve toward the lamp.

“Turn that  _ off _ ,” he growls, guttural. He claws at the lamp switch, but his shaking hands can’t get a grip on it. With a howl of frustration, he backhands it off the table. The lamp clatters to the carpet, the light bulb shatters, and it goes dark again.

Bucky’s breathing slowly starts to even out. He’s on hands and knees again, on top of Steve with one knee digging into Steve’s chest. The weight against his sternum makes it impossible to take a deep breath. The pressure of it reminds him of an asthma attack, heavy and constant. Gingerly, Steve raises a hand to let it rest on Bucky’s calf across him. Bucky twitches away from the contact at first, but then gives in to it. It takes five full minutes for his body to unfreeze and unlock—for him to be able to move at all. When he does, it’s all at once. He lurches forward, off Steve and off the bed.

Steve reaches over to the opposite nightstand. Hand on the switch, he says, “I’m going to turn on the lamp now.” He waits for a count of five, to see if Bucky will protest. He doesn’t. Steve flips the switch, and the room fills with a dim yellow light.

Bucky hovers by the door, stock still and staring straight at Steve. His shoulders are squared and his chin is lowered. His eyes are dull, dim as the room, blank and icy. His hands curl into fists at his sides. If Steve didn’t know better—if he didn’t  _ know _ —

If he didn’t know better, he would think that the Winter Soldier was in his hotel room.

Steve sits up slowly, wary not to startle Bucky. This happens sometimes, it happens when Bucky wakes up screaming, it’s not the first time he’s regressed or had a bad night. And Steve, he never knows what to do, how to handle this, what Bucky wants from him in a moment like this, if he wants anything from him at all. He always runs away from him, shuts down and shuts himself off till he evens out again. Steve understands that desire to be self-sufficient—if it can be called a desire. A need, maybe. He doesn’t need to deal with it on his own, Steve is right here with him now and always, but he’s never been so good at saying things like that the way Bucky is. Bucky never seems to want to hear it from him anyway.

He’ll do the one thing he knows that he can then. He’ll talk him down, and then he’ll follow Bucky’s lead after that. He’ll give him whatever he asks for. If that’s nothing at all, then Steve will do that. Doing nothing goes against every instinct he has, but if that’s what Bucky wants—he would never force his help on him.

He sits up, and he meets Bucky’s blank eyes. He holds his hands up in the universal symbol for surrender. He murmurs, “Buck.”

Bucky blinks hard at him.

“Bucky, sweetheart. It’s Steve.”

Bucky blinks again, and shudders. His eyes snap closed, and he breathes in quick little gasps.

“Buck?” Steve asks, soft and concerned. He stays still, but every cell in his body yearns to go to Bucky, to pull him in against his chest and hold him there so Bucky can hear his heart thrumming inside.

Bucky opens his mouth and lets out a loud breath like dragon fire. He sucks air back in in a long hiss. As he breathes out again, he whispers, “ _ Don’t. _ ”

Steve doesn’t know if he’s talking to him, his own head, a memory, or something, anything else. He listens anyway and doesn’t do anything. He stays frozen in the bed, and he waits. He watches as Bucky’s breath slowly starts to deepen and even out into a proper, healthy rhythm. He watches as Bucky’s hands clench and unclench repetitively, until finally they hang loose and open at his sides. He watches as Bucky’s eyes gradually flicker open to watch him, too.

Bucky stares at him, and some of the light re-enters his eyes. He doesn’t look so empty anymore, just scared—cornered animal now, not feral. Steve bites his lip, unsure what to do. He wants to ask— _ what do you need, what can I do _ —but he can’t. He should know what to do. He hates himself for not knowing, for feeling so utterly helpless, and that’s what ties his tongue. He  _ knows _ Bucky. He shouldn’t have to ask him what he needs.

Bucky’s hand darts out and grips the door handle. He looks at it, a little crease between his brows like he didn’t mean to do it. But he glances back at Steve, and something settles into him.

“I need air,” he rasps. It sounds like he hasn’t spoken in days, the words clawing their way out of his throat.

“It’s the middle of the night, Buck,” Steve responds, and then bites his lip. Whatever happened to giving him what he needs?  _ Selfish _ , Steve chastises himself.

“I need air,” Bucky repeats flatly. He stares at Steve for a long time, like he’s searching or waiting for something.  Steve meets his gaze, searching too, until Bucky breaks eye contact with a jerky nod. He turns the handle and wrenches the door open. He doesn’t look back at Steve before he walks out the door and pulls it shut again, taking something out of Steve’s chest with him as he goes. The clock on the nightstand reads 2:17 a.m.

Steve doesn’t mean to fall back asleep. He meant to lay awake and wait for Bucky to come back. He usually leaves the room when he wakes up like this, goes to sleep in his bed down the hall. But there’s no other bed, nowhere for him to go but the balcony outside or the parking lot. Steve expects him to come back, so he sits up in the dark and waits for him. Sometime during the second hour of it, he dozes off.

He comes to like breaking the water’s surface. It’s there, he’s close, he can just see the light—and then he’s over top and gasping, sitting bolt upright in bed, looking around wildly for land, for Bucky. He’s not here though. The bed beside him is still empty. He’s the only one in the room. Bucky’s backpack sits on top of the dresser.

“Shit,” Steve hisses. “ _ Shit _ shit shit.” He launches himself off the bed so quickly he loses equilibrium for a moment, his vision going spotty. Once he steadies himself, he plucks yesterday’s jeans off the floor and yanks them back on. The lamp lays on the ground, fragments of the lightbulb scattered around it. Steve stares at it for a beat before turning away to step into his shoes. He grabs the truck keys off the desk in the corner and barrels out the door.

Bucky couldn’t have gone far. The truck keys were still there, and so was his bag. He would be on foot with no supplies—how far could he go, that Steve couldn’t catch up? Unless he hot wired the truck, or used his wad of cash to buy a bus ticket. Was that what all of this was, then? Get Steve somewhere unfamiliar, where he wouldn’t know the exit points and escape routes, somewhere where Bucky could make a run for it? Was it all just a set-up, a ploy? Maybe he’d been packing to leave back in Brooklyn, and Steve had complicated things by tagging along.

The truck’s still there, in the same spot that he parked it in last night. In the pale dawn light, Steve takes a deep, steadying breath. He takes his hand off the door handle. Bucky has never given him a reason not to trust him. Not since he came back, not before then, not ever. He’ll come back. Doesn’t Steve trust him?

Steve turns on his heel and walks back to their room.

Inside again, he closes the door and sinks back against it. He feels sick with guilt for having thought even for a moment that Bucky would use him like that. That could set them back months if Bucky found out how much he’d doubted him. This whole thing is tenuous enough as it is, a careful balancing act on the thinnest of wires. Steve nearly sent himself toppling over into the depths below. Bucky would have followed down after him, like always.

He breathes again, deep with his diaphragm like the chorus girls taught him.  _ Everything starts with your breath _ , they would tell him. So Steve starts with a breath, and then he wipes away the wetness from his face. He feels sluggish and disheveled now. When’s the last time he showered? At home? He can’t remember. His feet carry him to the bathroom without much thinking on his part. He opens the door, and sees—

Bucky, sitting in the bathtub.

He’s hunched over, his cheek resting on top of his knees. His skin is pale, stretched tight over his jaw where it’s clenched. He doesn’t lift his head when Steve opens the door, but his eyes do flicker open. They’re clear and alert, though the dark circles underneath them tell a different story.

Steve stands still as a statue in the doorway. He can feel his heart in his chest, the way it constricts and thumps and slams itself around in the cavity of him. He can feel all the empty space inside his body. He can feel the way it fills up with shame, slick and sticky and hot like oil.

Bucky just stares.

“I—“ Steve cuts himself off, pressing his mouth into a hard line. He breaks eye contact, stares down at the floor trying to gather himself. With one hand gripping the doorframe hard enough to leave indents, he looks back up at Bucky. “I didn’t know where you were.”

Bucky blinks slowly. It’s only because Steve knows those eyes so well that he sees when the corners of them soften just slightly. It’d be unnoticeable, to anyone else.

“I’m right here,” he says.

Steve nods. The silence stretches between them, loaded and awful, until Steve blurts, “I think I’ll go down to the gym for a bit.” The hotel has a small one on the main floor. He saw it from the lobby when they checked in yesterday. Bucky needs space right now. He’s telegraphing that with his whole body, shut away in the bathroom here. Steve can give him space.

“Okay,” Bucky says. He lifts his head enough to turn it till his knees cradle his forehead. His hair falls forward so Steve can’t even see his profile.

“Okay,” Steve says, and then he turns away. He gets dressed for the gym, some sweats and a t-shirt. He has one hand on the door when he thinks of something. In the bottom drawer of the dresser, he finds some spare blankets. He grabs the pillows off the bed and carries the bundle into the bathroom.

When Steve re-enters the room, Bucky shifts just enough so he can see him. When he does see him, sees what he has, he sits up properly and frowns at him. It’s not a scowl, not an angry expression. He looks confused. That hurts Steve more than anything else, that Bucky would be surprised by this gesture. He holds out the blankets.

“That tub can’t be too comfortable,” Steve says. His mouth twists, and it might be a smile.

Bucky twists right back. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Bucky doesn’t make any move to take the blankets from him, so Steve leans over and sets them down on the bathmat. Crouched this close to Bucky, he can see the weariness that cuts deep lines into his face. He looks older. It could just be the bad lighting, or his imagination.

“Take a nap or something, will you?” Steve asks.

Bucky does smile then, though it has trouble reaching his eyes. “Sure, Steve, okay.”

“Do you want the door shut?”

“You’re going to the gym?”

Steve nods. Bucky bites his lip, glancing at the door.

“I don’t have to,” Steve says. Maybe he miscalculated. He puts a hand on the lip of the tub.

“No, you go,” Bucky insists. “Go. Leave the door open just a crack.”

“Okay,” Steve says. He nods again and stands up to leave. As he eases the door nearly closed, he hears the blankets rustling.

 

The gym is as well-worn and unremarkable as the rest of the hotel. Its one saving grace is that it’s empty. Steve heads for the single treadmill in the corner. It’s a lightweight model, and as he steps onto it, he considers just going outside to run instead. This thing might not be able to withstand him. Then again, they’re in the city. He couldn’t run like he wants to out there without drawing attention. And he told Bucky he would be in the gym. He shouldn’t go anywhere else, in case Bucky comes looking for him.

So he jogs. It’s not enough, not really, not what he wants right now—but it will have to do. He makes up what he can’t manage in speed on this rickety machine by staying on it for a long time. The air conditioner wheezes pitifully, doing little more than circulating the air. It’s hot and stale, and sweat beads on his forehead earlier than usual. When he finally steps off, he glances at the clock. He ran for over two hours. Steve wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the back of a hand. The mile counter on the display says he went nearly twenty miles.

He takes a towel from the rack by the door, slinging it around his neck as he leaves. The man at the front desk gives him a curious look, but Steve continues past him back toward the room. Outside the door, he gives himself a once over with the towel before keying in.

He walks into the room to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the bed, thumb stuck between his teeth. He pauses in the doorway. Bucky glances up at him briefly before turning his attention back to the spread before him. His backpack sits empty in his lap, its contents laid out across the dingy carpet in front of him. Bucky leans forward and runs his metal hand over a few items, picking them up and setting them somewhere else in the heap. The lamp sits on the nightstand again, the broken glass cleared away.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says. It sounds more like a question than a greeting.

Bucky doesn’t look at him when he says, “Hey, Steve.” He picks up a tiny umbrella and sets it next to a silver flashlight. “You coming in?”

“Oh,” Steve says, realizing that he’s still standing in the threshold. He steps farther into the room and lets the door swing shut behind him with a dull click.

“Good run?” Bucky asks, palming two protein bars. He puts one back down in a different spot. The other, he sets beside his leg.

“Yeah,” Steve answers. “I mean—bad treadmill, couldn’t really run. But it was fine.”

Bucky hums and nods. “I’m out of the tub if you wanted to shower.”

“You saying I stink?”

“Sure as hell don’t smell like roses, pal,” Bucky says. He looks up at Steve and wrinkles his nose. It’s the light in his eyes more than the teasing that makes Steve grin at him.

“Yeah, yeah, message received loud and clear.” Steve takes a step and then realizes that Bucky and his pile are blocking the path to the bathroom. He frowns down at all the stuff. “Should I, uh, step over? Or should I crawl over the bed?”

Bucky smirks up at him, but then glances back down at his things. He gets that little pinch between his brows and says, “Don’t touch anything.”

“I won’t,” Steve assures him. He takes the bed route.

When Steve comes back out of the bathroom, Bucky’s still on the floor. He’s got his head tilted back against the bed, though, eyes closed like he’s taking a break. Steve wonders if he did actually nap in the bathtub or if he’s been out here the whole time. He’d put the blanket and pillows away, so it’s hard to tell. Steve crawls back over the bed to get to his bag and gets dressed in something comfortable. He isn’t sure if they’ll be leaving here today or not. He eases onto the bed, lying on his stomach with his head propped up by his hands.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks.

Bucky blinks his eyes open and rolls his head to look at Steve. He narrows his eyes and doesn’t answer. Steve gestures broadly to the spread on the floor.

“Sorting,” Bucky says, shrugging away from the bed and turning his attention back to his stuff.

“Is it okay if I look?”

Bucky glances over his shoulder at him, frowning. “Sure.”

Steve looks properly, now that he has permission. There’s nothing there that he wouldn’t have expected, not really. It’s mostly clothes and various hygiene products, a few books and useful items. There’s a small stockpile of protein bars and one bag of unopened fruit snacks. At one edge of the grid—and that’s what it is, from this angle Steve can tell—he spies something curious. Next to Bucky’s fake driver’s license, another one lays beside it. It has Steve’s picture on it, the same fake name Bucky had given the car dealer, New Jersey issue. 

He wants to question it, but Bucky seems better now. He would rather not jeopardize that by prying. Besides, it makes him feel better to know that whatever Bucky had been planning—was still planning, maybe—it involved him too. 

Steve decides to keep it light, so he scoffs and points at the license. “Why do I have to be from Jersey?”

“You’re full of questions today,” Bucky murmurs. He plucks the backpack out of his lap and holds it open with one hand. With the other, he reaches for a clean pair of jeans.

“Is that a problem?” Steve asks, brow pulling together.

“No, Steve, it’s okay,” Bucky answers as he tucks tightly rolled clothes back into his bag. Steve stays quiet for a minute, unconvinced, till he spots something on the floor.

“Hey, is that a phone?” It looks like a burner, an old flip phone. It has an antenna, for Christ’s sake. Even Steve knows that’s out of date.

“Yeah,” Bucky answers.

“Can I … would it be okay if I used it? To make a call?” It didn’t occur to him till now that he’d left his phone at the apartment. He forgets to keep it on him most of the time, truth be told. If it’s not already in his pocket, its chances of making it there are slim to none. He hadn’t had to use it the morning they left. It’s probably still sitting on the kitchen counter. The corded hotel phone blended into the room too well for him to notice, like the dull landscape prints or the pattern of the curtains. He hasn’t thought about a phone in days.

Bucky reaches for it and hands it back to Steve wordlessly, without looking at him. Steve takes it and twists on the bed till he’s sitting up. He flips the phone open and stares at the number pad, debating. Then he dials. It rings three times before the line clicks on. The person on the other end doesn’t say anything.

“Sam?” Steve asks.

“Try again,” comes Natasha’s low voice.

“Oh, uh. Hi, Natasha,” Steve says, wincing. Bucky angles his head just slightly, and Steve knows he can hear every word being said—that he’s listening.

“Hi, Steve,” Nat greets sardonically. “Care to tell me where you are right now?”

He cuts his eyes to Bucky, who nods almost imperceptibly. “Nashville.”

“I didn’t take you for a country music fan,” Natasha says.

“It’s growing on me,” Steve hedges.

“Are you with him?” Natasha asks. Her voice is flat, hiding all her cards, unreadable. Steve looks to Bucky again. He nods, more noticeably this time.

“Yes.”

“Are you there willingly?”

Steve stands up abruptly. “Am I— _ Jesus _ , Natasha, what are you implying?”

Natasha sighs very lightly over the line. “I’m not implying anything, Steve. I’m simply checking to make sure the Winter Soldier didn’t abduct you, seeing as you both disappeared from your apartment two days ago without telling anyone.”

“I didn’t realize I had to report to you every time I leave the borough,” Steve bites out, pacing angrily toward the window. He twitches the curtain back, giving the lot a cursory once-over.

“You don’t have to report  _ your _ whereabouts,” Natasha says, all cool ice. “You are supposed to report his.”

Steve lets the curtain drop back when he can’t spot any surveillance vehicles, a hard breath popping out of his mouth. “ _ Jesus _ .”

“Or did you forget protocol? Or decide to circumvent it? It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Oh,  _ please _ fuck off.” He turns around to see Bucky hastily shoving all his things back into his backpack. Steve crouches down beside him and gently grabs his wrist. Bucky snaps his head up and scowls at him. “Hey, Buck, hey, it’s all right. It’s okay.”

“Is he okay?” she asks, and Steve’s surprised to hear a low level of concern in her voice.

“Shit,” Steve curses, fumbling with the phone. He hadn’t realized he’d still had the receiver up to his mouth. “He’s fine, Nat, just give me a second.”

He holds the phone against his chest and raises his eyebrows at Bucky. Bucky keeps frowning at him, and Steve shifts his hold on his wrist to tangle their hands together. He looks down at their hands, then back up to Bucky’s face. Bucky stares at their clasped hands, and his dark look slowly lightens and smooths over. He gives Steve’s hand a squeeze before dropping it to root around in his bag. Steve sighs and drops backward till he’s sitting on the floor across from him. He lifts the phone back up to his ear.

“Okay,” he says.

“Murder boyfriend back at baseline?” Sam asks.

“ _ Sam _ ,” Steve breathes.

“Nashville, huh? You try the hot chicken?”

Steve barks a sharp laugh. “Yeah, we did.”

Sam pauses on the other end. When he speaks again, his voice drops low, serious. “What are you doing down there, Steve?”

“We’re on a road trip,” Steve says. He shrugs even though Sam can’t see it. Bucky still has his face halfway stuck in his bag, but he pauses for a moment.

“Oh, okay. Where you headed?”

Steve shrugs again. “I don’t really know.”

“So you left on this road trip without telling anyone at all, and you don’t even know where you’re going.”

“Sam, can the passive aggressive lecture. Natasha already gave me an earful.”

“I don’t know if she gave you enough, Steve, if you can’t see how fishy this looks from our end.”

“There’s nothing ...“ He pauses to breathe, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re just driving. I didn’t mean anything by not telling anyone. It was … spontaneous.” That’s not true, strictly speaking—he’s not sure exactly how untrue it is—though Steve supposes it’s not an outright lie either. They’d packed for days, but everything after he’d grabbed his toothbrush has felt pretty spur of the moment.

“You’re okay?”

“We’re good. I promise.”

“You had us worried, when we couldn’t reach you and then your apartment was empty. We’re all worried.”

Steve sighs. “I’m sorry, Sam. I am. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

“I’ve got enough bullshit to deal with without trying to figure yours out too, Steve.”

“I know you do. Thank you for trying anyway.”

“You don’t leave me much of a choice sometimes, man,” Sam sighs. Steve stays silent, listening to Sam breathe through the line. “Is this important?”

Steve glances at Bucky, who’s fiddling with the side pockets on his bag, acting like he isn’t listening. The hard set of his jaw gives him away. “I think it is important, yeah.”

“Okay. Send us a postcard when you get where you’re going. Let us know if you’re coming back.”

“I’ll let you know  _ when _ we’re headed back,” Steve insists, frowning.

“Yeah, okay. Nat says bye.”

“Bye, Nat,” Steve says. “Bye, Sam.”

“You two take care, Steve,” Sam says, and it sounds like a warning. The line goes dead. Steve flips the phone closed and folds his fingers around it, too tight. The plastic gives a little groan. Then Bucky’s hands are on his, prying his fingers away from the phone and plucking it out of his hands. He tucks it away in a pocket of his bag. When he glances up at Steve, he looks a little hunted.

“Where are we going, Bucky?”

Bucky blinks at him slowly. “You’re the one driving,” he murmurs.

Steve sighs heavily and leans his head back against the window sill. It’s only with his eyes closed that he finds the courage to ask. It sounds boorish and terrible even in his head, to ask it. If that’s what they were doing, Steve likes to think he would have figured it out by now, or that Bucky would have told him. But he needs to ask. He hates himself a little bit for it.

“Are we running away?”

Bucky is quiet for long enough that Steve opens his eyes, lifting his head to look at him. Bucky stares back, assessing. The silence feels like answer enough. But then he says, whisper-quiet, “No.”

“Buck,” Steve begins.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Would it be okay if we were?” Bucky’s gaze flits down to the carpet. His fingers dig at a visible seam in it, prying it apart and twisting a thread around his pinky. Steve watches him do it for a long minute. Bucky gives a yank, and with a sharp ripping noise the thread comes loose, dangling off his fingers. He flicks it away. It floats down through the air and lands near Steve’s foot.

“Can you look at me for a second, Bucky?” Steve asks.

Bucky glances up and meets his eye without lifting his head too much. He looks tense, almost cowed. It pulls at Steve’s heart—he can feel the strings of it fraying, close to popping loose. He sighs and shifts forward, crawling across the floor till he can sit next to Bucky with his back against the bed. He rests his hand palm up on his thigh. Slowly, gingerly, Bucky slots his hand with Steve’s and knots their fingers together. Steve can just feel Bucky’s heartbeat in his palm.

“It would be fine if we were, Bucky, but you have to keep me clued in. I need to know what’s going on.”

A sharp burst of air punches past Bucky’s lips, almost a scoff. Steve turns to look at him, but he’s got his head ducked. His shoulders shake just a little. Steve twists to face him more fully, suddenly alarmed. “Buck? What is it?”

Bucky glances up at him, and Steve realizes that he’s laughing, eyes bright with mirth. But the set of his mouth is grim, humorless. “Nothing, Steve. Okay.”

“Okay? Okay we’re running, or okay you’ll keep me informed?”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want, Steve. All you have to do is ask.”

“Okay,” Steve says, staring at him searchingly. He feels like he’s missing something, like there’s something right in front of him that’s just not clicking. He opens his mouth to ask, but he can’t think of the right question. Bucky stares at him, waiting patiently, but it never comes.

Instead, he asks, “Do you mind if I turn on the TV?”

“Do you mind if I sort through your bag?” Bucky counters.

Steve glances at it sitting on the dresser and shrugs. “No.”

“Then no.”

Steve gets up from the floor and goes to grab his bag. He hands it to Bucky, who trades him for a protein bar. Steve stares at it for a beat before his stomach growls and he remembers he hasn’t eaten today. With an almighty sigh, Steve collapses on the bed and unwraps the bar. He flicks the television on and turns it to a news channel. He glances at the clock on the nightstand and—god, it’s not even 9 a.m. yet.

He must fall asleep at some point after the news anchor starts repeating herself, cycling back through the day’s stories. He must, because he wakes up with an abrupt jolt. Body rigid with tension, it takes him a few sluggish seconds to pinpoint what woke him up. There’s a shrill, consistent ringing in the room, blaring right near his ear. He sucks a breath in through his nose, and it punches back out of him with a jerk when something grabs his foot. Steve sits up rapidly and yanks his legs up the bed, glaring down toward the end to see Bucky peering up over the foot of the bed, one hand in the air. He points to the bedside table. Steve glances over and—oh, of course. It’s just the room phone. He catches it before it stops ringing, putting it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Mr. Grant in room 638?”

“Yes,” Steve replies without hesitation. Easier to just say yes sometimes, than bother with pointless explanations. It’ll amount to the same thing.

“Hi, Mr. Grant, this is Francie down at the front desk,” the woman says, bubbly in a way he’d find charmingly pleasant if he hadn’t just woken up so abruptly. As it is, her cheer grates on his nerves. “I noticed that you missed checkout time.”

Steve glances at the clock, and it’s near to noon now. “Oh, uh, sorry about that. We were … we lost track of time,” he mumbles. As he speaks, Bucky snakes his way onto the bed. Steve shifts over to make room for him, and he curls on his side facing Steve.

“Hmm, I understand,” Francie says, and something in her tone makes Steve’s cheeks heat up. He casts a furtive glance over to Bucky and thinks about correcting her, but. Easier just to say yes. “It’s just that checkout was at 11 a.m. Would you like me to put you down for another night? Your room is still available. Or you can pay a late checkout fee, whatever works best for you.”

Steve turns to Bucky, saying, “Hang on a second, Francie,” into the receiver before tucking it against his shoulder. “What do you want to do?”

Bucky considers for a moment, staring back at him inscrutably. Then he gives a little shrug. “I don’t want to stay here another night.”

“Okay,” he says, then puts the receiver back up to his mouth. “Okay, Francie, we’ll just pay the fee.”

“Great!” she says, and Steve thinks idly that she must be good at her job. She should work at a nicer hotel, or just somewhere nicer in general. “I can just charge it to the—oh, nope, I see that you paid in cash, woopsies. You can just pay when you do check out. It’s $30, and we do need you out by six or you’ll have to pay for the full night.”

“That’s not a problem, Francie, thank you.”

“Not at all, Mr. Grant. Have a nice afternoon!” she chirps before disconnecting.

Steve places the phone back in its holder and rolls on his side till he’s facing Bucky, who says, “I finished with your bag.”

“Do you think I brought enough underwear?” Steve asks.

Bucky sees through his phony earnestness and reaches out to cuff his ear. “Why’d you bring two tubes of toothpaste?”

Steve shrugs. “Good oral hygiene is the first step to good health. Do you think there’s any bad movies on TV right now?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “There’s always a bad movie on TV.”

“Let’s find one and heckle it.”

“Okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

They’re back on the road by nightfall. Bucky’s tucked against the door, the blanket from their hotel room spread across his lap. He left twenty dollars in the dresser drawer he had taken it from, more than the threadbare thing was worth. Sometime during the movie—some horrible slapstick comedy from the nineties—he had gone quiet, leaving Steve to make snide comments on his own until eventually he lapsed into silence too. He hasn’t spoken much since, and Steve hasn’t asked, just figures he’s tired. Steve’s tired too, but Bucky had said he didn’t want to stay in Nashville another night, so he’ll drive till he can’t anymore.

Bucky had spoken up for one thing, though, as the city proper faded out behind them. He told Steve to pull off at an electronics store and sent him in with cash and instructions to find a battery-operated portable speaker with an auxiliary port. Steve asks a sales associate, and he’s back in the truck with a speaker, an aux cord, and spare batteries within ten minutes. Bucky pulls a roll of duct tape out of his bag. He affixes the boxy speaker to the dashboard with a few well-placed strips, torn off with his teeth. Steve swears he hears him mutter, “ _ Voila _ ,” as he plugs his MP3 player in with the cord.

For the first few hours, Bucky gives him a crash course in music history. Mostly he goes year to year, with an occasional side expedition into a genre or band if he likes it enough. He doesn’t talk over the music, no actual history lesson. It’s just the occasional murmured word for context, and a  _ hmm _ ing noise of approval whenever Steve says he likes something. He dozes off eventually, Steve’s discarded sweater wadded up behind his head. The playlist keeps playing, and Steve keeps driving.

Sometime around midnight, Steve remembers that he’s barely eaten all day. He pulls off at a random exit past Little Rock. There’s not much to choose from at this late hour, but a fast food place blares its bright neon sign up the road. Steve follows the light. He opts to go inside so he can stretch his legs and take a piss.

Once he’s parked, he reaches a hand over and gently pats Bucky’s thigh. Bucky stirs slowly, and then he’s awake, blinking groggily at Steve. He looks around, out the window at the restaurant, and smacks his lips together drily.

“Hey, sweetheart, you should eat something,” Steve says quietly. A soft, lilting song plays from the speaker. “Do you need to pee or anything?”

Bucky shakes his head, rolling his shoulders with a groan. He’s not as alert as he usually is when he first wakes up, Steve notes. Something about sleeping in a car maybe, the rocking of the road dragging you down deeper than you mean to go. “No,” Bucky eventually manages around a yawn. “You go on in.”

“What do you want to eat?”

“Can I get …” he starts, trailing off thoughtfully. Steve waits. “A cheeseburger?”

Steve huffs a muted laugh at the look of unabashed hope on his face. “Yeah, honey, you can have anything you want. Is that all? Just a cheeseburger? What do you want on it?”

“So many  _ questions _ ,” Bucky mutters, kicking his feet up onto the seat so he can shove them into Steve’s leg. Steve chuckles, pushing Buck’s feet out of his lap. He likes this sleep-addled version of him, all pliant and pleasant. It’s cute as hell. “I want it with everything. And can I get … a milkshake?”

“What flavor? They’ve got about forty different—“

“ _ Steve _ ,” Bucky whines. His head tips backward till it thumps loudly against the window. “That’s too many options. You pick.”

“Okay,” Steve says. He checks his pocket to make sure he’s still got the leftover cash from the electronic store before heading inside. Bucky closes his eyes again before Steve makes it out the door. When he comes back though, sack of food in one hand and a massive milkshake with two straws in the other, Bucky snaps back awake in an instant. He makes grabby hands at the milkshake, sleepy eagerness all over his face. Steve hands it to him, and he takes a long drag. His eyelids flutter closed and he moans obscenely, so loud it startles Steve while he digs their food out of the bag. He glances over at Bucky, and something in his expression sends an unexpected shock of heat through him.

“This is so good,” Bucky breathes when he comes up for air. He stares at Steve with half-lidded eyes.

“Obviously,” Steve laughs, and Bucky has the good sense to look bashful. He ducks his head and hands Steve the milkshake, taking his foil-wrapped hamburger from him.

“I knew you were good for something, buttercup,” Bucky says and takes a bite of his burger.

Steve rolls his eyes and takes a sip of the shake. “Oh shit,” he rumbles, taking a longer pull.

“Right?” Bucky reaches out his hand to steal the milkshake back. They pass it back and forth while they eat. It quickly dissolves into a competition of who can make the most inappropriate noises while drinking it, till the straw drags at air and Steve has to adjust himself in his pants. Bucky laughs at him behind a napkin.

When they’re done, Steve hops out of the truck to throw away their trash. Back in the cab, Bucky has pulled Steve’s sweater on over his shirt, the sleeves on it an inch or so too long. He adjusts the playlist and settles back against the door while Steve cranks the engine. His eyes close again.

“Buck?”

“Yeah, Steve?” Bucky hums without opening his eyes.

“You can’t be comfortable like that.”

Bucky shrugs. “I’ve had worse,” he says flippantly.

Steve sighs. “Come lie down in my lap.”

Bucky opens his eyes to stare curiously at him. “You asking me to give you road head?”

“ _ No _ , Jesus,” Steve splutters. He puts the truck in gear. “Just a suggestion, but if you don’t wanna …”

“You sure that wouldn’t be uncomfortable for you?”

“There’s plenty of room between me and the steering wheel for your big head, Bucky.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. He crawls forward across the bench, glancing up at Steve before settling onto his side. He tucks his legs up on the bench as much as he can and rests his head in Steve’s lap. He reaches down to pull the blanket back over himself. Steve navigates back to the interstate with Bucky’s hot breath ghosting over his thighs. Once they’re going again, he takes one hand off the wheel to stroke at Bucky’s head, playing with his hair. Bucky pushes into it, snuggling more firmly against him.

“Just don’t wreck,” Bucky mumbles into his leg, half-asleep already. “I ain’t got a seatbelt on.”

“Like you wouldn’t be fine if you pitched through the windshield,” Steve laughs. The song playing from the speaker takes a slow turn into the chorus, something sweet and wistful.

“Mm, be a pain in the ass though.”

“I won’t wreck, sugar,” Steve whispers, brushing his fingers over Bucky’s cheek. “Just get some sleep.”

 

Steve wakes up with the sun in his eyes and a painful crick in his neck. He comes to slowly, prying his head off the headrest with great effort. He rolls his neck, the joints popping too loud in the quiet cab. As he shifts and stretches, Bucky burrows into his lap, looping one hand over Steve’s leg and gripping his inner thigh. Steve hisses a little at the close contact so early in the morning, so very public. 

When his eyelids started drooping too much to keep them open, he’d pulled off at a rest stop somewhere just past the border of Arkansas to catch a few hours of sleep. Bucky hasn’t woken up once since he curled up in Steve’s lap, and Steve would hate to change that, but his right leg from the hip crease down is completely asleep. He needs to move.

Steve runs a hand over Bucky’s hair, smoothing it down and continuing the movement down his back. He scratches light, languid circles along his spine. Bucky’s breath gets a hitch in it, so Steve knows he’s coasting toward wakefulness. Steve gets more insistent, adding in a gentle pat here and there, his left hand working out a few tangles of Bucky’s hair. Once he starts to make little noises and arch his back into Steve’s touch, Steve knows he has him.

“Buck, you gotta sit up so I can move my leg,” he whispers.

Bucky grumbles a wordless protest, but then he unsticks himself from Steve’s lap and gradually sits up. Steve laughs a little when he sees his face, blinking owlishly at him. Steve’s jeans left weird patterns of indentation across his left cheek.

“Something wrong with my face?” Bucky asks, frowning comically deep.

Steve laughs again, leaning across the cab to cup Bucky’s cheek. He rubs his thumb over the reddish marks, trying to work life back into the skin. “Nothing a little lovin’ can’t fix,” Steve says, pressing a soft kiss against Bucky’s cheek.

“Jesus but you’re a cheeseball,” Bucky mutters, but he turns his head till his lips find Steve’s. They linger with each other for a long moment, sour morning breath and all, till Bucky pulls back to look out the window. The flat green wash of the landscape isn’t much to look at, shrubs and squat trees huddled under the pale blue of a cloudless morning. “Where are we anyway? What time did you finally stop last night?”

“I think we’re in Oklahoma now. I stopped around three, I think.”

“Huh. You know anything about Oklahoma?”

Steve shrugs, reaching for the door handle. “Just that it’s OK.”

Bucky nods absently as Steve opens the door and steps out. He turns and leans forward over the bench, reaching his arms out and stretching his back. His leg’s gone to pins and needles as the blood works its painful way back through the vessels.

“Wait a second,” Bucky says haltingly. Steve glances up with a grin to see Bucky pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“What? Was that not OK to say?”

“Steve Rogers, you are the worst man alive,” Bucky quips, tearing the blanket off his lap and going for his own door.

Steve straightens up and closes the driver side door. As Bucky lopes off toward the restrooms, Steve calls over the roof of the cab, “Thought I was your best guy!”

Bucky gives him the one finger salute without turning around.

 

They amble west at a leisurely pace that day, windows down, cruising along. Bucky takes the first shift so Steve can try to catch a little more sleep, but it’s a wasted effort. With the warm spring air whipping in through the open windows, with the way the bright sunlight hits Bucky’s face, it was a lost cause from the beginning. Bucky rags on him about it, telling him to quit staring before he punches him out and makes him get some rest. But his tone isn’t sharp, he’s teasing and laughing and blushing, sometimes all three at once. Steve can’t help it if he would rather watch Bucky than the back of his eyelids. He tells him as much, and he’s glad he does because Bucky’s face lights up radish red.

Bucky doesn’t seem to mind that Steve stays awake after he runs out of taunts about it. He’s chattier today than usual, something unlocked or shaken free by the road or the wind or the day. He smiles more than Steve can remember him doing since … He can’t think of a comparison, which says enough. It’s not that Bucky is surly all the time, but he’s removed and quiet in a way that Steve still finds disconcerting. He got that way sometimes before,  _ before _ , but it was always a summer storm: hits out of nowhere and gone as soon as it comes, brutal but quick. Steve was always the sullen one with too much on his mind. But now it’s usually more prolonged, gentler but lingering—a cold storm front, lumbering slowly up the coast, low-hanging.

Steve hadn’t really thought about it till now, but this trip seems to have dislodged something heavy from the both of them. He wonders if it will come back—what kind of weight it will carry when it does.

But for now, he laughs at Bucky’s jokes and tells some of his own. He listens to the running commentary on the music Bucky has playing and tries to remember the songs that he likes. And he soaks up the warm presence of him, more invigorating than the sun slanting in through the open windows.

 

Bucky stops somewhere just shy of the Oklahoma border, Steve finally starting to nod off against the window. He rouses when Bucky parks outside of yet another dilapidated roadside motel, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

“Why’re we stopping? ‘S still … still daylight out,” he croaks out through a jaw-popping yawn.

“Because of that,” Bucky says, poking him in the chest. Steve bats his hand away halfheartedly as he yawns again. “That and I didn’t want to spend the night in Texas.”

“Hey,” Steve warns, reaching down to gather their bags at his feet, “don’t mess with Texas.”

“Texas shouldn’t mess with  _ me _ ,” Bucky retorts. Steve hums in agreement and drops their bags heavily on the bench. Bucky huffs a laugh, reaching over to muss Steve’s hair. “Come on, dill pickle, I’ll grab the bags. You just try to stay upright till I get us a room.”

Steve does stay upright till they get a room, but only for precisely that long. He has half-baked ideas about  _ getting a room _ as they take the stairs up to the second floor, but they’re gone as soon as the door shuts behind them. He flops bodily onto the bed and nearly falls asleep right there, legs dangling off the end. Bucky manages to cajole him into shucking his jeans and crawling under the covers. Once he’s tucked in though, he’s out like a light.

In the morning, Bucky swears he woke Steve up at some point to eat dinner he’d snuck out to get. Steve has absolutely no recollection of this, which Bucky finds absolutely hilarious. He doesn’t bother with being embarrassed about it though. He’d slept for over twelve hours, so he must have needed it.

They get breakfast at some local greasy spoon and hit the road again, rolling into Texas with Steve at the wheel. The dense greenery started to fade out somewhere back near Oklahoma City, but as they trek further west the vegetation gets even thinner. Wiry, dry grass flanks the pale concrete of the interstate on either side with only the occasional tree. The wide, flat expanse of it is beautiful in a much different way than the mountains had been, pretty for its sparseness rather than its abundance.

Steve is only just beginning to realize how far I-40 goes.

By the next day, they’ve nearly made it to the Arizona border. They’re running out of borders to cross, Steve notes. California, and then it’s the Pacific Ocean, and that’s all there is. Granted, like most of the southwestern states, Arizona is wide and they have plenty of miles to go—but Steve wonders. Will they take I-5 up the state once they hit it? Or maybe California One, the scenic route along the coastline. He’s lost in reveries of beaches and saltwater when Bucky gives an irritated huff.

“What the fuck is that rattling? Is that the engine?”

“What?” Steve asks, barely catching the question.

Bucky sets his journal down and cuts the music off to listen. After a beat, he shakes his head. “No, I don’t think that’s the engine.”

“You know much about cars?”

Bucky snorts. “I don’t know jackshit about cars, pal, I grew up in Brooklyn in the thirties. Why would I need to know anything about cars? I know how to drive one and how to hot wire one, but that’s it.”

“I don’t know, you could’ve … learned, since then,” Steve says, grimacing.

Bucky levels a dark frown at him. “I didn’t. Besides, that rattling’s coming from behind us, and I do know that the engine’s up  _ there _ ,” he says, pointing out the windshield. He unbuckles and twists around in his seat to look out the back window. After half a second’s assessment, he gives a triumphant humph and slides open the window pane. When he leans halfway out the small gap, Steve reflexively grabs at his pant leg with one hand to keep a grip on him. He stretches, reaching for something in the bed, before he slides back down into the cab, Steve tugging him along.

“Did you park under a tree or something last night?” Bucky asks, holding up a thick stick, the source of the rattling. It’s as long as Bucky’s forearm and about the diameter of his wrist. Steve gapes at it.

“Maybe? Was that in the back?”

“No, darling dearest, I pulled it outta my magic hat,” Bucky quips. He rolls his eyes and takes the stick in a batter’s grip to mime swinging it at Steve’s face. “’Course it was in the back, Steve.”

Steve expects Bucky to roll down the window and toss the stick away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches around to the small of his back and draws a sizeable knife out. Then he grabs Steve’s jacket from the floorboard, lays it over his lap, and starts hacking the bark off the stick. He pauses for just a moment to get the music going again. The rhythm of his carving increases till he matches the song’s tempo.

“Didn’t know you were packing,” Steve murmurs.

Bucky doesn’t glance up when he says, “Steve, you have seen me take that holster off every single night since we left Brooklyn.”

“It kind of just looks like a belt,” Steve hedges, wrapping his hands more firmly around the steering wheel. “I didn’t think about it.”

“You didn’t ask, is what you didn’t do,” Bucky mutters. He stops his hacking and looks up at Steve, brow pulled down. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” Steve answers, too quickly.

“Liar,” Bucky replies, smooth and smiling. Steve looks back at the road, and Bucky goes back to carving. Little chips of wood start to pile up on the jacket in his lap.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Steve asks after a few tense minutes.

Bucky scoffs. “What do you think this is, amateur hour?”

“I didn’t see any more when you were sorting all your stuff,” Steve reminds him. “And I didn’t bring the shield, so.”

“Whether or not you packed properly is none of my business,” Bucky counters. He pauses for a long beat, the knife still in his hand. “I had them all on me.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes. Right. It’d been a bad morning—that made sense. He goes quiet then, and the sharp rasp of the blade against wood picks up again. Steve lets Bucky alone for a while and focuses on driving, not that there’s much need for focus on this stretch of road. He can’t remember the last time he had to do much more than twitch the wheel, much less turn it.

The repetitive sound of Bucky’s knife shaving down the stick turns soothing after a while. After about half an hour, it stops. The window rolls down, and Bucky shakes the wood shavings off the jacket through the opening. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve watches Bucky lean forward and place something on the dashboard. Steve glances at it and—oh.

It’s a tiny carving of a wolf, standing with its head tossed back in a howl.

Steve reaches for it instinctively, but pauses just before he touches it. “Can I … ?” he asks, looking to Bucky for permission.

In lieu of an answer, Bucky swipes the wolf up and turns Steve’s hand over. He sets it in the center of Steve’s palm, and it fits perfectly in the depression there. Steve holds his hand out in front of him so he can study it without looking away from the road too much. It’s roughly whittled, clear knife strokes all over the animal’s body, but it’s detailed too. It has little ears, an approximation of a nose and two eyes, four paws, and a bushy tail. Bucky even carved shallow indentations to suggest hair. It’s a little marvel, right there in his hand.

“I didn’t know you did this,” Steve says, smiling wonderingly at the wolf.

Bucky shrugs. “Aren’t always people around who need stabbing,” he says flippantly.

“Huh,” Steve huffs. “How long have you been doing it?”

“I don’t know, couple months I guess.”

“Is there a secret zoo in the apartment somewhere I don’t know about? Why don’t I know you do this?” He turns to give Bucky the carving back, but Bucky just closes his fingers around it and pushes his hand away.

“You keep that one,” he murmurs. Then his tone shifts uncomfortably as he says, “I mostly do it when I’m over at the park.”

“Oh, right,” Steve mumbles, setting the wolf back on the dashboard where he can see it. The park across the street from their building is tiny but lush. Their living room window offers a view of the whole thing. “What do you do with all of them though?”

“Give ‘em to kids mostly. Adults sometimes too, whoever happens to stop and ask what I’m doing. Mr. Esposito down the hall takes a lot of them for his grandkids.”

Steve takes his eyes off the road for longer than is strictly safe to watch the smile bloom across Bucky’s face as he talks. He rubs at a cigarette burn on the door beside him, but like he can feel Steve’s eyes on him, he turns to look at him. His smile turns a little embarrassed.

“What?”

“Why do you do it?” Steve asks, sincerely curious. Bucky balks a little at the look in his eye, glancing down at his lap.

“It’s nice to make things,” he says, so soft Steve can barely hear him. “To put things in the world instead of taking them away from it. I like working with my hands.”

Steve’s heart thumps in his chest like it’s trying to bust out and throw itself right at Bucky. He settles for reaching across to tuck Bucky’s loose hair behind his ear so he can see his profile better. “Well, they’re beautiful,” he says. It doesn’t feel like quite enough.

Bucky scoffs. “You’ve seen one.”

“I’ve seen enough to know they’re all beautiful.”

“You’re so full of sap if we drove up to Canada, they’d tap you for syrup,” Bucky deadpans. Steve throws his head back and howls with laughter. Midway through it he spots the wolf again and his laugh morphs into a wolf’s howl, loud and abrasive.

“I don’t know why I like you,” Bucky huffs, crossing his arms and resolutely not looking at him. Steve just howls again, leaning over to get right next to his ear. Bucky breaks after about three seconds, swatting Steve’s head away and laughing. “Okay, okay, quit it before you draw the whole pack in, Steve!”

Steve leers at him, grinning wide, but he does quiet down. Bucky shakes his head, still smiling, and swipes through his player to find something else to listen to. He chooses something upbeat and catchy, a little rock and roll. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see him bopping his head and wiggling around in the seat like he’s itching to get out and dance for real.

“So you like music,” Steve begins.

Bucky glances over at him quizzically. “Yes?”

“And you carve wooden figurines with tac knives,” he continues.

“If there’s a question here, sugar pop, you’re gonna have to ask it before I can give you the right answer,” Bucky says, eyeing him with amused suspicion.

“What else don’t I know about you?”

Bucky lets out a long breath, raising his eyebrows and grimacing. “Well, back in the Alps I laid in the snow for two full days before—“

“I meant what else do you  _ do _ ,” Steve interrupts hastily. “What else are you into?”

“I know what you meant,” Bucky retorts, cutting him a dark look. His glare smooths out quickly as he lets out a soft breath. He shrugs. “A lot of stuff, I guess. I mean—a reasonable amount. I have a healthy number of interests.”

Steve catches the sideways look Bucky gives him, but he’s not sure what it means. “Like what?” he prompts.

“I like to read, but you know that,” he starts. “I write sometimes too, not just in my journal. I mean, it’s in my journal, but it’s not … journal stuff. I’m not exactly selling myself as a writer here, sorry,” Bucky says, laughing at himself and dragging a hand through his hair.

“You write?” Steve asks. It pinches at his gut for some reason.

“Yeah, just little nonsense stories and things, nothing serious. It’s fun. I like cooking too,” he adds, clearly trying to steer Steve away from this topic lest he ask Bucky to start reading him bedtime stories. Steve can’t say the thought didn’t cross his mind, but—

“You like to cook,” he says flatly.

“Um, yes, in case you haven’t noticed I cook most of your meals,” Bucky says, halfway to offended.

“You make steak and potatoes three times a week, Buck.”

“Yeah, because that’s what you like, Steve,” Buck says with another shrug.

“Bucky,” Steve admonishes, and he feels like the breath’s been punched out of him. “I would eat literally anything you put on my plate. Please don’t stick to basics on my account.”

“Great, I’ve been meaning to try out a recipe for pickled octopus I found a few weeks ago,” Bucky says, tipping his head toward Steve and smirking at him.

“I will  _ try _ anything you put on my plate,” Steve corrects, nodding to convince himself. Bucky cackles at him, clutching at his stomach.

“Why don’t I know any of this about you?” Steve wonders aloud, catching Bucky’s eye, wide and blue as the sky outside. “I’m around you all the time, I don’t understand how I haven’t—“

“Because you don’t ask,” Bucky cuts him off sharply, suddenly stiff.

Steve sucks in a breath, face crumpling.

“Sharing is hard for me,” Bucky says seriously, voice rocky. He breathes raggedly for a moment, staring down at his lap. When he speaks again, it’s halting, like it costs him a great deal to say the words. “I need you to ask. You have to ask. It’s hard for me to talk about it if you don’t ask.”

Steve thinks that they’re not talking about Bucky’s hobbies anymore, suddenly.

“Okay,” he breathes. He reaches up to wipe at his eye. “I’ll try harder, Bucky.”

“Fuck, Steve, I don’t know how you could  _ try harder _ ,” Bucky breathes. “I’m just suggesting a strategy change might be in order, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Steve mumbles. He glances over his shoulder to check his blind spot, shifting lanes to pass a particularly slow sedan. Something prods at his thigh. He glances down to see Bucky’s socked foot, sneaking its way into his lap, poking at his stomach.

“So what are you into?” Bucky says, tone just this side of too bright.

“What am I into?” Steve asks blankly.

“Yeah, what are your secret hobbies? I know watching me’s one of your favorite pastimes, but it can’t be the only one you’ve got,” Bucky jokes, a smile twitching around the edge of his mouth.

“Uh,” Steve stalls. “I work with the team, and I go to the gym, and I hang out with you.”

“And? I know all that stuff. What else do you do?”

Steve just shakes his head, frowning out the windshield and thinking back to a conversation he’d had with Sam once. He doesn’t remember feeling this way that time.

“Shit, Steve,” Bucky huffs, leaning heavily against the door.

“Sorry,” Steve croaks. He still feels like he might start crying for some reason, something catching roughly in his throat.

“Don’t apologize, honey,” Bucky says, leaning forward till he can rest a warm hand over Steve’s shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize. You just have to get some goddamn hobbies.” He smiles crookedly at Steve, but Steve can’t quite return it. Bucky bites at his lip, considering, before something lights him up. “Hey, when’s the last time you cracked open a sketchbook?”

“I don’t remember,” Steve says, the knot in his stomach only winding tighter with guilt.

“Hmm,” Bucky hums thoughtfully. He stretches back out across the bench, settling with both feet in Steve’s lap. He plucks his notebook and a pen from the top of his backpack. “Might be a place to start.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

The truck starts making noises somewhere outside of Flagstaff. It rattles and groans so much Steve wonders whether an animal’s gotten lodged somewhere under the hood. They stop off on the side of the road so Bucky can check it out, but there’s nothing visibly wrong that he can determine. Steve looks too, just for the hell of it, even though he knows he wouldn’t be able to see a problem unless the oil was just spraying out at him or something.

But it still runs fine, and the noise is loud but easily drowned out with heavy bass, so they decide not to worry about it till they absolutely must. Ignore it till it becomes unignorable.

“Here’s hoping we don’t get stranded on the side of the road,” Steve jokes. Bucky laughs along with him, but something in his expression tells Steve he thinks it’s a possibility. That makes it hard to stick to the worry-free plan.

It’s fine for a while. It is. They make it to California, and the truck might be limping, but it is still going. They can make it. Steve swallows down his worry and trusts that if Bucky is fine with this, then he should be too.

The shrubland transitions into desert, hot and arid. Steve rolls down the passenger window to let the dry wind into the cab. He’s spent most of his time on the east coast, where the air is so heavy with moisture it feels like drowning when the thermometer breaks ninety. But out here, Steve can’t even gauge how hot it is because it feels so different. The change is nice.

The warmth of the early evening feels good, mild and buoyant as the sun sinks toward the horizon in front of them. Bucky flips his sun visor down so the light’s not blinding him, but Steve leaves his up to keep the view unobstructed. The colors in the sky are bright and rich, oversaturated oranges and pinks. He only ever dabbled in watercolors, but looking at the golden light kissing the clouds has him itching to get a brush in his hands for the first time in years—in decades, he supposes.

“Are you seeing this?” he wonders, pointing a finger out the windshield.

“No, Steve, I’m blind. Didn’t you know that?”

“Oh fuck, why did I let you drive?”

“Beats me, but I’m doing a stand-up job of it, dont’tcha think?”

Steve doesn’t answer, just smiles dreamily at him. Bucky reaches over and pulls at his arm, dragging him closer across the bench. Steve settles in under Bucky’s arm, curled against his side to watch the sunset over the low mountains in the distance. Then the engine gives an almighty wheeze, the loudest it’s been since it started making noises.

“Uh,” Steve says.

“Fuck,” Bucky bites out, unwinding his arms from around Steve to grip the steering wheel hard. The engine clunks a few times, the truck slowing. Steve glances down, but Bucky’s foot isn’t on the brake. In fact, he has the accelerator floored—but they’re still losing speed.

Bucky grumbles a curse and eases the truck onto the shoulder. Steve is still pressed into Bucky, and he clutches the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt, suddenly nervous. The engine whines to a climactic pitch and then croaks out its death rattle. It rolls to a stop of its own accord, and it dies.

“Fuck fucking shit,” Bucky growls, slapping his hands on the wheel for punctuation. It creaks and bends under the force, the decades-old vinyl creaking. Steve winces at the quick violence of it. “Goddammit!” Bucky yells, and in the close confines, it hurts Steve’s ears.

Bucky shoves Steve off him and clambers out the door. Steves rights himself and rubs at his arm. He watches from the cab as Bucky angrily throws open the hood. Smoke pours out of it, and Bucky staggers backward, coughing and waving his hand in front of his face. The dark cloud clears quickly though, just a puff and not an ongoing problem, and he dives back in toward the engine.

Slowly, Steve gets out of the car and sidles up next to Bucky. Both of Bucky’s hands have disappeared into the guts of the engine, rooting around inside. Steve still can’t see what the problem is, but it smells acrid. His stomach turns, from the smell, the apprehension, or both.

“Looks bad,” he offers, then wrinkles his nose. “Smells bad too.”

“Oh, you think?” Bucky snaps, tossing a glare over his shoulder at Steve. It hits him square in the chest, and he feels himself crumple slightly at the impact.

“Thought you didn’t know anything about cars,” Steve says.

Bucky harrumphs and leans farther over the truck.

“I believe the exact amount you said you know was, and I quote, ‘jackshit’,” Steve says, using air quotes for emphasis even though Bucky can’t see him. He doesn’t know why he’s still prodding when Bucky’s so obviously irritated. Levity maybe, or a complete lack of self-preservation. Or maybe he just feels uneasy and useless and doesn’t know what else to do.

Bucky reels back from the engine, whirling on Steve. His eyes are dark, narrowed threateningly. Steve takes an involuntary step back, fingers twitching at his side, and he hates how quickly he slips into a defensive stance.

“Yeah, and what do you propose we do then?” Bucky spits. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in bum fuck Egypt right now, Steve darling, so excuse me for trying to fix the goddamn truck.”

“Jesus, Buck, I was just messing around. I’m nervous. I’m sorry,” Steve says, holding up his hands in surrender. Bucky seems to realize then how much he’s leaning toward Steve, how menacing he looks, because his whole body sags and wilts. He backs off and turns to lean against the bumper, dragging both hands through his hair.

“Sorry,” he sighs. “Guess I’m nervous too. Shit.”

“It’s okay,” Steve offers, leaning against the truck beside him. He gives him space, careful not to touch him lest he set him off again. He wants to though—wants that reassurance of touch, to have Bucky’s arms around him. But he knows he can’t ask for that right now.

Steve takes a moment to look around them to distract himself. The desert stretches wide on either side of the interstate, a vast expanse of sand and sparse, scraggly shrubbery. In the far distance, mountains sketch out some texture on the otherwise flat landscape. It has a sort of desperate beauty to it—like everything’s just clinging to life, but it is holding on.

With a sinking feeling, Steve realizes that not a single car has passed by on either side of the road. He can’t see an exit or any other sign of civilization in either direction. They really are in the middle of nowhere. 

He glances at Bucky, who stares down the road, unfocused and still clearly tense.

“Hey,” Steve coaxes softly as something occurs to him. Bucky looks sideways at him and raises an eyebrow as Steve turns to face him. “Do you still have that phone?”

“Oh,” Bucky says, smacking the flat of his palm to his forehead. He rolls his eyes at himself, shrugging past Steve to get to the passenger door. He returns with the flip phone in hand, punching in three quick numbers before holding it up to his ear. Steve wonders if there’s even any service out here, but the he hears the ringing as the call goes through. His heart lifts when the person on the other end of the line picks up.

“Hey, yeah, can I get the number for the nearest auto repair?” Bucky asks into the phone, polite but rocky. He listens for a bit, and then turns to Steve with his eyebrows raised. “Where are we?” He’s asking Steve as much as he’s repeating the question to stall.

“Uh,” Steve says, casting about for an answer. “I think we passed an exit for Essex Road a while back.

Bucky nods and says, “On I-40 westbound, a good twenty miles past the exit for Essex Road. Yeah, that’s fine.” He keeps the phone to his ear as he shoos Steve off the bumper so he can ease the hood shut. Once it is, he hops up to sit on it, patting the space beside him till Steve joins him.

“They’re patching me through,” he tells Steve, leaning back on a hand. 

“Gotcha,” Steve says, blinking into the last rays of sunlight. Despite Bucky’s casual posture, his index finger taps out a nervous rhythm against the phone, twisting frown still in place.

“Hi, yeah, I need a tow truck,” Bucky says into the phone. “Twenty miles west of the Essex Road exit on I-40 westbound.” He pauses to listens. “Shit, really?”

Steve glances at Bucky in alarm, who just holds up a finger,  _ hold on a second _ . He listens to the other end of the line for a long beat while Steve sits stock still beside him, watching his face for any clue.

“Okay, yeah, that’s fine. We’ll be here when you get here,” he says with a wry laugh. “Thank you.”

Bucky snaps the phone shut with a heavy sigh and slips it into his jean pocket. Then he collapses back against the windshield, closing his eyes.

“Settle in, jelly bear, we’re gonna be here a while,” Bucky says, shifting like it’s possible to get comfortable on the hood of a car. Steve leans back with him anyway, sides pressed together. 

He’s almost scared to ask, but he does. “What did the auto shop say?”

Bucky huffs a harsh breath. “That their single tow truck is out at the moment and will be for a while. Not to mention they’re about a hundred miles away from us.”

“So it’ll be a minute or two then,” Steve says dryly.

“Might be all night,” Bucky corrects, either not catching the joke or not in the mood for it.

They lie there quietly for a long time, long enough for the sun to truly set. Steve knows he should feel more relaxed, now that help will eventually be on the way. They’ll be here for a while, but they aren’t stranded. Why does he still feel tense then? It could be the unused nervous energy, or the simple fact that he’s been pent up in a car all day and suddenly isn’t anymore. He needs to move, or he might rattle right out of his own skin. He needs  _ something _ .

“Do you want to take a walk?

Bucky opens one eye to look at him. “We’re in the middle of the desert, the sun has set, and you want to take a walk.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, shrugging.

“Yeah, okay, let’s walk,” Bucky replies flatly, sitting up. He slides down off the hood, and Steve follows after him. 

Bucky leads the way off the pavement and into the sand, crunching and shifting beneath their shoes. Steve watches his feet as they walk in silence, picking their way between the stunted little bushes. Steve follows directly behind Bucky, who walks with stiff purpose. The whole line of his back is tense, and he has his hands shoved in his pockets. Steve finds himself mirroring his body language, a vague sense of apprehension tangling his insides. He doesn’t pry at it, worried about what he would find if he pulled too hard.

They walk for a long, long time. True night descends, and the temperature begins to drop.

As he tucks his hands deeper into his pockets to ward off the chill, Steve starts to wonder if this was such a good idea. They can still turn back, but he can’t find it in himself to stop Bucky marching directly into the dark. He keeps following, and the pace keeps him warm enough.

He’s looking at his feet again when Bucky stops, so he doesn’t notice until he slams right into his back. Bucky spins around and hisses at half-volume, “Watch it.”

Steve starts to apologize, but Bucky lays a finger over his lips. “Listen,” he breathes, inches from Steve’s face. Steve pauses and strains his ears. All he hears is the whistle of the breeze and the chattering creak of crickets. But then the noise comes, and he frowns underneath Bucky’s finger. It’s a rattlesnake, shaking its tail in warning.

“You afraid of snakes?” Steve mutters around Bucky’s finger over his lips, smirking. It’s not like either of them would have a problem with the venom. 

“You wanna get bit, be my guest,” Bucky whispers. He pinches at Steve’s lip, a sharp little tug, before he shifts away and cuts left, away from where the snake lies concealed.

As Steve hurries after him again, he supposes Bucky does have a point. The serum might protect them from the venom, but not from the pain. He catches up till they’re walking side by side. He brushes the back of his hand against Bucky’s, deliberately casual, but Bucky tucks his hands back in his pockets and stares straight ahead. 

That knot of tension in Steve’s stomach twists tighter. The sensation reminds him of before they left on this trip, that coiled dread clawing up the back of his throat again like it hasn’t in days.

“Where are we going, Buck?” Steve asks for what feels like the hundredth time.

“You’re the one who wanted to go on a walk, Steve,” Bucky counters sharply.

Steve doesn’t answer that and isn’t sure how to. That’s true, it is, but it feels like Bucky’s been running this operation, this trip, this whatever the hell they’re doing. And Steve has only been amenable and accepting, never pressing Bucky to give him answers about where they’re going or what they’re doing way out here in the middle of the goddamn desert, two thousand miles from home. Steve has no idea what they’re doing, where they’re going, or why they’re out here at all. If there’s any point to it, he doesn’t know what it is. Bucky never said a word about it. And Steve  _ has _ asked—that’s the one thing he’s asked more than once:  _ Where are we going? _

And Bucky’s answer, the same thing every time, a diversion, a non-answer:  _ You’re the one driving, you’re the one who wanted to go, you you you _ , as if Bucky wasn’t the one who’d started packing first. As if this whole charade was Steve’s doing.

Suddenly Steve feels warm despite the cold, and he realizes that he’s flushed all over, red hot and angry. He grabs Bucky by the shoulder and hauls him to a stop.

Bucky wrenches free and turns on him, lit up all at once. “Don’t touch me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“What?” Bucky asks him, tugging his hands out of his pockets. He squares his shoulders, brow pulled low and casting his eyes into even deeper shadow. Steve reflects his rigidity, planting his hands on his hips in the posture he knows pisses Bucky off, always has, because it’s such a  _ posture _ . But he’s trying to get a rise out of him, because he’s only ever been tentative and halting, and maybe he needs to push now. A change in strategy, like Bucky had suggested.

“I said that’s not an answer. You didn’t answer my question. Where the fuck are we going?” He punches out the last word, gesturing jerkily back toward the road to make sure Bucky understands that he isn’t talking about the damn walk. 

“West,” Bucky deadpans.

“That’s not an answer,” Steve bites back, dropping his hands to clench into fists at his sides. “You told me to ask you, and now you won’t give me a straight answer. Which is it? What am I supposed to do?”

Bucky stares him down, his expression dark as the night around them, then abruptly angles away from him. Steve just moves in closer, till he’s back in Bucky’s line of vision. He isn’t going to let this lie, not now. Now that he’s brought it up, he’ll go after it till he gets a real answer.

“It’s not an answer because I don’t have one,” Bucky mutters. Steve pulls up short, surprised by that. Bucky stares holes into the ground, chewing his lip, and his right hand twitches like he wants to grab something. Then he glances up, more at Steve’s shoulders than his eyes. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“So we’re just driving?” Steve presses. “We’re not going anywhere?”

“I don’t know, Steve, I don’t know!” Bucky shouts, bursting to fiery life. He throws his hands up in the air. “What do you want me to tell you?”

“There must have been something, Buck, come on,” Steve insists. He sighs a ragged breath. “You were packing a bag. You’ve got all that money.”

Bucky does meet his eyes then, just a furtive glance before he tips his head back to look at the stars. He crosses his arms over his middle, holding onto his own elbows. As Steve watches Bucky, the discomfort rolling off him in palpable waves, Steve knows the question he has to ask. He doesn’t want to ask it, has been avoiding it even though it’s been sitting there in the back of his mind, on the back of his tongue making him sick since before they even left. He’s tried to ask indirectly, but he has to say it plainly now. He needs to know.

“Were you going to leave?”

Bucky looks at him then, and the hint of a bitter smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “How much closer to getting punched am I if I tell you that I don’t know?

A hot spark of annoyance flashes through Steve, incongruous with the strange desire to laugh. He doesn’t act on either impulse, and instead feels sinking shame creep through him as he mutters, “I’m not going to hit you.”

Bucky keeps watching him though, so Steve makes an effort to relax his shoulders. He realizes his nails are cutting into his palms and unballs them too. Once he’s less tense, Bucky nods at him.

“I was thinking about it,” Bucky says on a sigh. He tucks his arms more tightly around himself and looks down again. “I don’t know. But then you started packing too, and I guess whatever I was trying to prove didn’t feel like it mattered so much anymore.”

Steve doesn’t let his answer tear him up just yet, instead latching onto the second half even while his heart drops. “What were you trying to prove?”

“Maybe prove’s not the right word,” Bucky says.

“What’s the right one then?” Steve asks, still pushing but less forcefully now. He moves a step closer, but Bucky backs away from him again, so he stills and waits.

“Can I … can you give me a minute to figure it out?” Bucky asks, glancing up at him with wide eyes. The abrupt vulnerability of it shocks Steve into frowning, and he begins to wonder if Bucky even has any of the answers that he wants. Maybe neither of them thought this through.

“Yeah, Buck, anything you need,” Steve says. He has never been a patient person, but he tries for Bucky. If that’s what he needs, he can be that for him.

Bucky turns to walk away again, but he pauses after a few steps to glance over his shoulder at Steve. Steve hurries after him, and together they walk farther out into the desert. Objectively Steve knows he could navigate them back to the truck. They haven’t gone that far. Despite that though, he stills feels lost out here, like someone swept away his breadcrumb trail, leaving him reeling and wandering. That might not have anything to do with the desert though.

It takes a while, but eventually Bucky stops. Steve notices this time because he never took his eyes off him. Bucky turns to face him, and he looks wary but determined. 

“Is it okay if we sit?” Bucky asks, gesturing to a wide rock to his left. Steve doesn’t answer, just walks over and perches on the end of it, his hands wrapped around the rough edge. Bucky takes a seat too, keeping a deliberate distance between them. 

Steve stays quiet, apprehension twisting his insides and pulling the breath out of his lungs. He waits as Bucky takes a deep breath, and then another. The crickets still creak, but the loudest thing Steve hears is his own heart beating out a nervous rhythm in his chest.

“Sharing is hard,” Bucky says, so soft Steve barely picks it up. He chances a look at Bucky and sees him sitting stiffly with his hands in his lap. The metal thumb kneads deep into the palm of the flesh one.

“Take your time” Steve says. “I’m listening.”

“Are you? Will you listen to me?” Bucky asks, but it’s not accusatory or even angry. He sounds resigned. 

“I will,” Steve promises, twisting on the rock so he’s facing Bucky, who still stares down. Steve tentatively reaches out a hand and lays it over Bucky’s clasped ones. Bucky stills under his touch, but he doesn’t look up, just watches as he lets Steve pry the metal thumb away from his palm. Steve wonders if it will bruise. He repeats, “I’ll listen, Bucky. I will.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to,” Bucky says, voice rocky.

“I just said that I did,” Steve says, properly confused now. What would make Bucky think he doesn’t want to listen to him? Bucky takes Steve’s hand in his own, gives it a squeeze, and then lays it in Steve’s lap. Steve stares at his hands as Bucky draws his own back.

“No, I didn’t mean—not now. All of it. You don’t want to know about it.”

“About what?” Steve asks, that feeling catching in his chest again like he’s missing something, like it’s right outside of his reach. Steve stares at Bucky’s profile like he might will whatever Bucky’s thinking right out out of his skull, so he can lay it out on the floor and sort through it. Put it in an order he can understand, that might bring him comfort.

A hot gust of breath pushes past Bucky’s lips like he’s been hit. “Steve,” he starts in a low-pitch, “don’t be so obtuse.” He lifts his head to look at Steve then, his eyes hard and hurt. “You don’t want to know about what happened to me. Not really.”

Steve sucks in a quiet gasp as it clicks, comprehension sliding into painful place. “Bucky—”

“So maybe I was leaving, I guess I was because I just couldn’t stand you walking on eggshells all the time, looking at me so scared and sad every time something reminded you that I’m not—that I can’t ever  _ be _ who I was—

“Bucky, Buck, hey, stop for a minute—” Steve pleads, reaching out to touch Bucky’s shoulder, but he jerks away across the rock and plows on.

“And I know that it’s hard for you, to see me like this, to try to deal with it, but  _ shit _ , sweetheart—”

“Bucky—” he tries again, and it feels like dodging knives.

“What?” Bucky croaks, standing up so fast it makes Steve jump. “What, Steve, what is it?”

“I didn’t …” Steve starts, breaking off to take a deep breath.

“You didn’t what?”

“Give a guy a goddamn minute to figure it out, Buck!” Steve yells, straightening up off the rock too. Bucky’s jaw works, irritated, but he stays quiet while Steve tries to wrap his head around everything Bucky just said. It takes a while, because he can’t—because it’s so—it feels so incomprehensible, that Bucky would think that way. That he would think—what? That Steve couldn’t handle his trauma? That that was why he pulled away every time Bucky had a nightmare or got triggered? But that wasn’t right, no, how could he think that? Steve was only doing what he thought Bucky wanted him to do. He knows he doesn’t always get it right, that he’s floundering most of the time, but he had no idea Bucky believed he was actively avoiding anything.

When he speaks, Steve looks right at him. He owes him that—owes him so much more than that apparently, if it’s his fault they’re this out to sea.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Wanted you to what?”

“To ask about it. I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it. Those first few weeks after you came back to me, you barely said a word. You wouldn’t let me touch you or do anything at all for you.” He breaks off for a second to breathe, wiping hastily at his eyes as he remembers that time. It had been like living with a ghost, well and truly, Bucky quietly lurking around the apartment, always in the corner of his eye but never getting any closer to him.

“You got better after a while, and things changed, but you still never brought any of it up,” Steve continues softly. He’d cried the first time Bucky had sat down on the couch with him, and then he started talking again after that. Steve had been so scared he would mess it up and lose him again. He still is. “The doctors told me not to push you into anything, so I figured since you weren’t bringing it up, you didn’t want to talk. You still kept me at arm’s length. I stayed there, because I thought that’s where you wanted me to be.”

Bucky looks at him for a long time, the furrow between his brows slowly growing deeper, his eyes troubled. Steve can feel himself folding under the weight of it, wishing Bucky would just say something, respond, give a dog a damn bone before he cracks like one. 

Then Bucky says, “I thought you didn’t want to come any closer.”

“You …” Steve frowns. “What?”

“Jesus,  _ Jesus _ ,” Bucky rattles, flinching to life again, pacing a quick step back and forth in front of Steve. “Why are we so bad at this?”

“Bad at what?” Steve asks. He’s lost the thread of this conversation again somewhere, dropped the needle on the ground. He steps closer to Bucky and reaches out a hand to stop him, steady him. Bucky lets him this time.

“Talking to each other,” Bucky says.

Steve’s frown deepens, and he drops his hand from Bucky’s arm. “But we’ve been talking this whole time.”

“You know what I mean,” Bucky says, voice hard, eyes harder.

There’s the needle, jabbing sharp into his palm. Steve blinks once, twice, and glances down at his feet. “I do. We just—never had to before. I always knew where you were before.”

He looks up at Bucky then to find him staring back sadly. “Did you?”

“I …” Steve trails off to consider it. Maybe they’ve never been good at this. Things just weren’t as complicated before the U.S. Army waltzed into their lives and changed the shape of them forever. Or it doesn’t feel like they were, comparatively. “Maybe not,” he finally admits.

Bucky sighs softly, stepping forward into Steve’s space. Steve lets him, and Bucky brushes the back of his hand against his cheek, gently carding his fingers through his hair. “I’m not blaming you for it, sweetheart,” Bucky whispers. “Just pointing out that we seem to have developed a pattern here.”

Steve huffs a breath that he means to be a laugh, but it’s not. It’s not a sob either, not quite—somewhere in between. God, but they’re both a mess. He covers Bucky’s hand with his own where it’s laid over his neck now. With a rocky inhale, he meets Bucky’s eyes, the blue warmer now.

“If I ask you something, will you answer me?” Steve says, barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah, Steve, though that’s what we just established,” Bucky says, giving Steve’s neck a gentle, teasing squeeze. 

“You were going to leave,” Steve says, hating how plaintive and desperate it comes out. But he needs to know why. He can’t choke that word out, but he hopes Bucky will understand him anyway.

“That’s not a question,” Bucky says. Steve just stares at him pleadingly. Bucky watches him for a long beat, contemplative and inscrutable, a foreign language again. His demeanor switches as easily as his tongue. He tugs his hand out from underneath Steve’s and takes a step back. 

“I don’t know,” he says with a slow shrug.

Steve starts to protest, to push again, but Bucky holds up a finger.

“I don’t think that’s why I started packing.”

“Then why did you?” Steve asks.

“I guess I thought, let’s see how long it takes. Let’s see how far I can push this till he says something. When you didn’t react to it, that’s when I realized I might actually do it. That I would leave if you didn’t say anything. But then you—” Bucky breaks off and points at him, shaking his head with a crooked smile cut across his face.

“You didn’t play it the way I thought you would. You just went with it. Why did you just go with it? But then I thought, this could work too. Maybe this could be good for us. I forgot what I was doing and just let it happen. I still wondered though, when will the jig be up? When’s he going to call my bluff? How far can I take this before you start demanding some answers?”

His words stun Steve into silence as all the threads of it start to weave together in his mind.

“Turns out it’s about two thousand miles,” Bucky finishes.

And because it’s all he can think to say to that, Steve says, “I’ve been asking questions. I have.”

“Not the right ones,” Bucky corrects. “And you always just drop it. I told you, I need you to push me sometimes.”

“How am I supposed to know the right questions?” Steve asks, bristling defensively again. This conversation is giving him whiplash. “How am I supposed to know the difference? Am I supposed to just guess when you actually don’t want to answer or when you just need me to  _ push _ you?”

Bucky’s mouth presses into a hard line, and he scuffs the toe of a boot in the dirt before he answers. He doesn’t look up as he grinds out, “I don’t know.”

“Jesus,” Steve exclaims, pivoting to face away from him. The rush of anger is muddled inside him, and it only makes it burn hotter. He likes his anger pure, purposeful, with clear direction. That’s the kind he knows he to deal with, the easy kind. This anger—this sad, shameful, hopeless kind—twists in his gut, a rotten infection after what should have been a clean cut. He recognizes it as the anger that accompanies futility.

He doesn’t hear Bucky approach him. Whether it’s the roaring in his ears or that silent way he moves sometimes, he doesn’t notice till Bucky lays a gentle hand on his shoulder and murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

Steve wrenches away instinctively, and then feels worse for it. He swallows loudly and reaches out for Bucky’s hand, slotting their fingers together. The contact grounds him, reminding him why they’re having this conversation at all—why it matters. “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize to me.”

Bucky stares at their intertwined hands as he says, “I didn’t talk about it because I thought you didn’t want to hear it.”

“That’s …” Steve starts before he has a handle on it, guilt simmering low in his stomach. He wants to refute it, but he’s not sure that Bucky doesn’t have a point.

“What?” Bucky flashes, head snapping up to look at Steve. He pulls his hand away again. “Ridiculous? Is it? Every time it even barely comes up, you shut down and leave the room.”

“It’s not about me,” Steve insists. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, settles for gripping at his own legs, too tight. 

“Exactly,” Bucky sighs. “It doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with you. It never did. It’s not your fault. It’s not your pain. I know it’s still hard for you to deal with, and lord knows you have your own shit too, _ I know _ . But this isn’t yours. It’s mine.”

“I know,” Steve murmurs, and he does know. That’s been the whole thing: he didn’t think Bucky wanted to let him into that. “You could share though—if that’s what you want. If you want to share, I’ll listen to you.”

“Ain’t no upbeat ditty from the eighties, Stevie,” Bucky says, trying for lighthearted but falling closer to harsh.

“I’ll listen,” Steve repeats, and he holds out his hand again in offering. Bucky takes it and wraps Steve’s hand in both of his own, between warm skin and cool metal.

“We’ll work on our shit together. I’ll start sharing if you get a damn life,” Bucky whispers, reeling Steve in till they stand flush together. Steve hooks his chin over Bucky’s shoulder and curls his free arm around Bucky’s waist.

“Okay,” he promises. “What about your life?”

“What about it?” Bucky breathes into his hair.

Steve pulls back a few inches to look at him. He can just makes out the wisp of their breath between them in the cool night air. “What do you want to do? Is there anything you want? Besides a better sound system in the apartment.”

Bucky rolls his eyes fondly, but then he frowns, biting his lip and looking down. “I’m not … I’ve only thought about it a little, but I think I’d like to help.”

“Help?” Steve asks, confused. And then, as Bucky glances up at him from under longer lashes, he gets it. “Oh. You mean help the team.”

“Would that be okay? Could you handle that?”

“It’s not up to me,” Steve says, shaking his head.

“Oh.” Bucky wilts a little, but Steve runs a firm, comforting hand up his back.

“No, hey, I meant that it’s your call. If it’s something you want and you believe you can handle it, then I will handle it too. It’s not about me,” he parrots with the ghost of a smile. He’s starting to catch on.

Bucky smiles softly back at him. “What about everyone else?”

“You just have to show them that they can trust you. It might take some time, but they’ll come around. I did.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Steve honey, you just followed me across the country on a whim. You were a goner before I was even myself again. Or need I remind you about the time your trust in me got you put in the hospital with three bullet wounds—”

“Okay, yeah, sheesh, I get it!” Steve cuts over him, but he’s grinning. “I’m not a good example, but they will come around, Buck. You would be a good addition to the team.” And as he says it, he can see it, and he realizes it’s true. Whatever measures it took to learn his skills, Bucky is good. He’s always been good at what he does, whatever it cost him. “I have to ask something though.”

Bucky quirks an eyebrow. “What?”

“This is what you want?” Steve asks. Bucky’s nodding before he even finishes, but Steve needs to specify. “You’re not doing this because you think you have to?”

“To make up for all the people I murdered under duress?” Bucky clarifies, and Steve nods. Bucky bites his lip, thinking, and then shakes his head. He meets Steve’s eyes and says, “No. I just want to feel like I have a purpose. This could be it. Plus, someone’s got to look out for your reckless ass.”

Steve tips his head forward onto Bucky’s shoulder, laughing, and he feels Bucky shaking beneath him too. “Okay,” he breathes, lifting his head back up. “Just checking. I’ll help you in whatever ways you want me to.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, burrowing in against Steve’s neck. He loosens his hand from around Steve’s, still caught between their chest, to wind his arms around Steve’s waist. Steve presses a kiss into his hair, holding him close. Bucky ghosts his lips against Steve’s neck, and then whispers into the same patch of skin, “Are we okay?”

“We will be,” Steve assures him. He means it. It’s true. He might not know where they go from here, but he does know that as long as they’re together, they can navigate anything.


	6. Chapter 6

The low rumble of an engine coaxes Steve to the edge of consciousness. He can feel the cold on his skin, but he’s still warm somehow. The unforgiving plastic ridges of the truck bed dig into his shoulder and hip, but he’s comfortable despite it. He shifts, pressing back against Bucky’s body behind him, and settles in to sleep a while longer.

Then something grabs his ankle and shakes it roughly.

“Up and at ‘em,  _ hombres _ !” A bright, cheery voice cuts through his sleepy fog. Steve kicks his leg loose and jerks away, accidentally jabbing an elbow into Bucky’s ribs. Bucky springs to wakefulness in double-time. Steve can feel it against his back—tense muscles, held breath. He doesn’t relax like he usually does. Instead, Bucky is off him in an instant, slamming backward against the cab of the truck with a thump. Steve barely has time to roll over before Bucky has a knife drawn.

“Whoa, what the—“ comes the voice again. Steve glances over his shoulder and catalogues a young woman, dark hair and coveralls. Through the windows of the truck, he spots a tow truck. Not a threat. In another beat, he’s crouched in front of Bucky, hands up and face open.

“Bucky, hey, honey, it’s just someone from the auto repair,” he coaxes, holding out a hand for the knife but not taking it. Bucky stares back at him, still and calculating, ready to launch. He chances a furtive look over his shoulder, and Steve watches as he ducks sideways to get a better look at the woman. Slowly, he relaxes, eventually slotting the knife back into the holster at the small of his back, and Steve sags with relief. Another minute passes before he feels comfortable turning around.

He does though, to face the woman. He smiles apologetically at her, holding his hands up to show her that he’s unarmed. “Sorry about that,” he says. “We don’t like abrupt awakenings too much.”

The woman stares back at him, contemplative with her hands planted on her hips. She has her coveralls halfway down, tied around her waist to reveal a grungy grey tank top, stained with motor oil. The coveralls are too dark to spot any stain, but she has a smudge across her temple, and Steve would bet it’s in the thick twist of her braid, too. It doesn’t make her look messy though, somehow—just charming. 

“My bad,” she says, offhanded but not unkind. “Didn’t know how else to do it.”

“No, it’s okay, really,” Steve says as Bucky creeps forward. They both start gathering the loose clothing they’d laid out as a makeshift mattress. Bucky takes each piece out of Steve’s hands, rolls it properly and shoves it into its rightful bag. Steve gives him a searching look, and Bucky returns it with a cursory nod to say that he’s okay. He turns to the woman again. “We’re fine,” he says, crawling forward to hop down off the truck.

“Okay,” the woman concedes. She sticks her hand out to Steve and says, “I’m Lara.”

“Steve,” he says, taking her hand. Her shake is firm. He glances over his shoulder as he lets go. “That’s Bucky.”

“Hi, Bucky,” Lara says, waving at him. Bucky pauses with a sweater in one hand. He stuffs it into his bag and then waves back, mouth twitching. Lara grins, looking back at Steve. “Sorry it took so long for someone to get out to you guys—didn’t mean for you to have to sleep out in the cold.”

“That’s okay,” Steve says.

“Hmm, yeah,” Lara says, waggling her eyebrows. “You looked pretty comfortable. Hated to wake you up a little bit.”

Steve feels his cheeks color as Bucky slides down from the bed. Passing Steve his duffel, he asks, “You’re from the auto repair?”

Lara glances down at her coveralls, then leans around them to squint at the tow truck. She meets Bucky’s gaze with wide, innocent eyes. “No, I’m from the Dairy Queen.”

Bucky turns to look at Steve and declares, “I like her.”

Steve rattles a laugh, patting at Bucky’s shoulder affectionately. “Alright, let’s let her do her job then. Do you need any help getting the truck hooked up?”

Lara shrugs, her braid slipping off her shoulder to swing pendulum-like behind her as she flounces past them. “I don’t  _ need _ help, but I’m not too proud to turn it down either,” she calls over her shoulder.

Bucky follows, pausing at the driver’s side door. He pulls it open and climbs inside, dumping his backpack onto the floorboards. Steve hands his bag to put inside too, leaning against the frame of the open door. He watches Bucky as he fiddles with the edge of his sleeve, pulling it down halfway over his left hand and frowning.

“Hey, Bucky?” Steve asks.

Bucky twists to look at him, their faces close. “Yeah?”

“Are you good? Do you need anything?”

“No,” Bucky answers. He smiles softly and continues, “I’m good, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve smiles back at him and murmurs, “Any time,” before leaning closer to kiss him lightly, a gentle brush of lips. Bucky chases after him as he pulls away, reaching out to grab at his shirt. Steve lets him yank him back in again, but he’s smiling too much now for it to be much of a kiss. He lays his hand over Bucky’s, knotted in the fabric over his chest, and leans away.

“Let’s not be rude to the lady with the power to leave us stranded in the desert,” Steve says.

“I can think of worse things to happen to me,” Bucky says. Then he goes still.

But Steve’s smile doesn’t falter as he bats away an unwanted barrage of thoughts. It was just a joke. “I’m sure you can, sugar, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to find a real bed sometime soon.”

He smacks a kiss on Bucky’s cheek before pulling away entirely and spinning on his heel. He pauses after shutting the door to wink at Bucky, and he can tell even through the dirty window that Bucky’s eyes have gone dark, his cheeks just faintly flushed. It’s only his sense of propriety that keeps him from going back and laying Bucky out on the bench right then.

As it is, he does have some manners, and so he goes to see how he can help Lara. She already has the flatbed dropped at the truck’s front wheels and has disappeared into the cab of the tow truck. Steve finds her sitting there, on her phone.

“Do you need help?” he asks.

She looks at him and smirks. “Didn’t want to interrupt your canoodling.”

“Oh,” Steve says, blushing again. Lara shoos him away so she can climb down out of the car.

“No worries, my friend. If I had a boyfriend who looked like that, I’d smooch him every chance I got,” she says, crouching down to look under the truck’s front bumper. Steve looks up wide-eyed to see Bucky grinning back at him slyly, elbow propped on the lip of the open window. Lara straightens up, dusting her hands off on her pants, before Steve can do much more than blink a few times.

“Okay, we’re all hooked up. Tell boyfriend to put her in neutral,” she says, ducking past Steve to get back to the controls for the wrench.

“Buck—“ he starts.

“Neutral, got it,” Bucky chimes, confirming Steve’s suspicion about the source of that grin.

“For insurance reasons, I’m not supposed to let you ride,” Lara calls to Bucky. “Scoot your boot.”

In another few minutes, Lara has the truck piggybacked in the flatbed of the tow truck. She turns to them with a dubious look, petting at her braid with one hand. “I can probably fit you both in the cab with me, but you might have to sit on beefcake’s lap,” she says, pointing first at Bucky then Steve.

Steve blanches, but Bucky just grins, always the better sport about it. “Thanks, but beefcake and I will just take the bike.”

“Oh,” Lara says, surprised. “I saw that but assumed it wasn’t yours. Why’d you stay out here all night if you had that?”

“Um,” Bucky says, glancing at Steve.

“Too busy canoodling,” Steve quips, fishing the bike’s keys out of his pocket. Bucky cuffs him on the shoulder, but the twist of his mouth looks oddly like a smile. It’s not true. Neither of them had even thought of it. They had walked back to the truck, a slow trek together in the dark. Bucky had immediately vetoed sleeping in the cab, claiming that only one of them would end up even remotely comfortable. So they had hauled the bike down out of the truck bed, layered on a sweater or two, and spread out their remaining clothes to give some semblance of padding. Steve thinks he might have kissed Bucky all of once before they both fell asleep, exhausted bodily and emotionally.

But it’s a good joke, and Lara laughs as she trails off to the door of her own truck.

The bike feels good underneath him, rumbling to life and settling into a purring thrum. Bucky’s body sliding up behind him feels even better. It’s a chilly morning, the sun just starting to peek out behind them, throwing hazy yellow light over everything. But even through their layers, Steve can feel the heat of him, can feel Bucky’s heartbeat pounding a steady rhythm against his spine. The truck had its perks, but this—this, he missed.

Bucky winds his arms around Steve’s waist and holds on tight as they set off, following Lara west.

After nearly two hours, signs of civilization start to crop up against the flat of the landscape. A few buildings become a few more until, miles later, they come upon a town proper. The interstate curves into the low-slung desert town, and Steve slows to keep pace with the truck ahead of him as Lara takes an exit. Trees sprout up along the road, wind-blown and a shade of green so dull it barely qualifies—but they are trees, and Steve can’t remember the last time he felt so grateful to see one.

They pull off behind Lara into the parking lot of a nondescript auto repair shop. She idles in the lot and waves them forward.

“Just park anywhere and go hang out in the waiting area while we get your old lady unloaded and checked out, okay?” she says.

Steve nods, and she pulls off around behind the building. He pulls the bike into a spot and Bucky swings off before he has it parked properly, yanking his helmet off.

“They better have coffee in this waiting area or I’m gonna protest,” Bucky grumbles, waiting on Steve to take off his own helmet before striding off toward the door. There isn’t any coffee in the room, but Bucky manages to swindle the receptionist into pouring them two cups from the office. She brings them back bagels too.

“You’re the boys that got stuck out in the desert, right? Figured you’re hungry too,” she says, handing them the coffee and food with a wide smile. She points to the rickety fold-out chairs in the corner. “Settle in, and let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Steve says, and Bucky raises his paper cup with a grin and a nod. They set up in the chairs to eat and wait.

Steve is just nodding off on Bucky’s shoulder when Lara comes striding into the room.

“Bad news, beefcakes,” she trills, clapping her hands together. Steve blinks awake and sits up to look at her, smiling benignly at them. Her braid is pinned up in a knot on the crown of her head now.

“You sure?” Bucky asks quizzically.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she drawls before launching into a detailed explanation of what’s wrong with the truck. Steve nods along as she speaks, feigning understanding even as his stomach sinks at how complicated it sounds, but Bucky just frowns at her.

“So how much is it gonna set us back to get her rolling again?”

“It’ll be a pretty penny,” she says, turning towards the receptionist. “Isla, can you pull me up pricing on all this?” she asks, passing her a bright orange sticky note. Isla types for a few moments before announcing a price. “Right, that much,” Lara chirps, spinning back to face them.

“You’re awful chipper about taking all our money,” Bucky mutters, extracting his dwindling cash wad from his pocket to count it out.

“Don’t be rude, Buck,” Steve chides. To Lara he says, “I didn’t thank you for coming out to get us at the crack of dawn.”

“Oh no, boyfriend’s right, Steve,” she says. “You don’t have to thank me. You just have to pay me.”

“How long will all this take to fix?” Steve asks as Bucky continues counting.

“At least a day or two. I need to check inventory for parts. If we have to order them, it could be four or five,” she answers. Steve nods, frowning down at his kneecaps. So they’ll be stuck here for at least a few days—wherever here even is. Somewhere in California. To be honest, it doesn’t sound too bad to stay in one place for a few days, settle in somewhere. His frown melts away.

“You boys need a place to stay?” Isla calls from her desk.

Bucky jerks his head up and says, “Apparently.”

“I can recommend a few hotels, but my brother Eddie and I rent out a place if you’d prefer that. It’s tiny, used to be our mom’s place before she moved in with me, but I think it’d fit the two of you,” she says with a wink at Lara, who laughs behind her hand.

Steve turns to look at Bucky, smiling. “How ‘bout it? I’m sick of motels.”

“How much?” Bucky asks.

“Eighty-five a night. It’s a little steeper than the hotels, but not by much,” Isla says. “Plus you’d have actual privacy and a kitchen.”

Bucky thumbs through his money again and murmurs to Steve, “I don’t know if I have enough for the repairs and the rental.”

Steve raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Really?”

“Not unless we’re trying to get back too. There a reason you think I’d lie about that?”

“No,” Steve answers quickly. “Hang on, I’ve got …” He shifts so he can get at his back pocket and pull out the thin wallet there. He flips it open for Bucky to see the thick black card inside, the one he hasn’t used since stopping for gas that first day. “That okay?”

Bucky stares at the worn leather, frowning. Steve understands his hesitation. If they use this, there’s no guarantee they’ll be alone for long. Someone could grab hold of their location, and then the well-meaning if misguided wolves might descend. Bucky must be debating the choice, even though they don’t have much of one if they plan on making it home. After a long beat, he nods, one sharp jerk of his head.

Steve faces Isla with a smile. “Okay, how should we do this?”

 

They make it to the little house by midmorning. Isla didn’t lie to them—it’s a tiny box of thing, out on the edge of town. Steve can see why she would have moved her mother out of it. It’s one story, squatting low, the beige siding hardly discernible from the landscape. But the front door is a bright, sprightly green, and the flowers in the window boxes provide another shock of color to make the place look cheerful. The road that leads to it is all sand and dirt, and the bike’s wheels kick up a fine dusting of it all over them. The yard is as barren as the rest of the desert, just a few hardy trees and one lone cactus out front. There are only a few other houses along the street, all similarly sized.

Steve rolls the bike up the driveway and parks, cutting the engine. Bucky peels himself off, already extracting their bags from the saddlebags by the time Steve dismounts. He pulls the house’s key out of his pocket, replacing it with the bike keys, and Bucky follows him up the worn stone path to the front door.

He has to shove the door with his shoulder to get it to unstick, but then it swings open with a welcoming creak. The front room is small, but the wide windows let in enough light that it doesn’t feel cramped. The couch has floral fabric, and Steve isn’t sure if it would fit the both of them. The little television in the corner has a built-in VCR. The living room backs up into the kitchen, with outdated appliances and sunshine orange tile. Yellowed lace curtains trim the windows and the door to the back porch.

“Shitty,” Bucky chimes from right behind him.

“It’s nice,” Steve protests, utterly charmed by it.

“Ugly.”

“It’s got character,” Steve says, elbowing him in the ribs.

“You’re a sap.”

“And you’re a terrible pessimist.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Now move out of the doorway, sunshine,” Bucky says, shouldering past Steve where he’d paused in the threshold to take it in. Bucky moves into the room with purpose, flicking on lights and slapping at the couch cushions to shake the dust off. Steve trails forward more slowly, hiking his bag more firmly over his shoulder and walking toward a door on the left side of the room.

He turns the knob and pushes it open to find the bedroom. It’s small too, like everywhere else, barely much room to move around the big wooden bed frame that dominates the space. The walls are a pale shade of green, the bedspread a soft white with a patterned quilt folded over the foot. He sets his bag on top of the dresser in the corner, and then flops bodily down onto the bed. It squeaks and creaks under the sudden weight of him, but then settles with a quiet sigh of springs.

“Bed’s comfortable,” Steve calls, voice muffled against the mattress.

“Somehow I don’t believe you,” Bucky’s voice floats back.

Steve lifts his head to say, “No need to take my word for it—come find out for yourself.”

He hears Bucky’s quiet tread over the hardwood, the soft clip of boot heels as he enters the room. Steve rolls over onto his back to look at him, but Bucky doesn’t spare him a glance. He buzzes around the room, dumping his bag on the dresser before poking his head into the bathroom to give it a cursory look. Then he flits to the front windows, pushing back the gauzy, lightweight curtains to get at the locks. He throws them and then eases both windows open, one after the other.

“Oh, Bucky, don’t do that. Bees or something will get in,” Steve groans, holding out a hand for him.

Bucky twists to look at Steve over his shoulder, the pale light pouring through the open window backlighting him hazily. He smiles softly. “Yeah, maybe, but I like the breeze.”

A gentle gust pulls at the strands of dark hair floating around his face. Steve smiles back, lazy and content on the bed. “Yeah, okay.”

“Take your clothes off,” Bucky orders, grabbing at the hem of his own shirt.

“Uh,” Steve hums, sitting up as Bucky pulls his shirt off and strides out of the room. “Not the bed?”

Bucky pivots to face him from the living room, one hand holding his discarded shirt and the other undoing his fly. He smirks, because he knows what he’s doing. “Oh, what, you thought I meant funny business?”

“I mean,” Steve starts, slipping his shirt over his head. Of course he thought that. What else was he supposed to think? Bucky toes off his boots.

“No, lemon drop, I meant laundry. You’re covered in dirt, or hadn’t you noticed the mess you’re making of that fine white bedspread?”

Steve glances down to see a sandy smear across the fabric. He’d like to make a different kind of mess of this fine white bedspread.

“You smell besides. When’s the last time you showered?” Bucky asks, shucking off his pants.

“When’s the last time you did the laundry?” Steve counters, the heat pooled low in his belly draining out as he realizes that Bucky, joking tone aside, means it.

“You think I just didn’t wash my clothes when I was on the lamb all those months? Nice to know you think so highly of me, Steve, really,” Bucky drawls as he steps out of his underwear. He gathers up his clothes and pads away, naked save for his socks.

Steve hauls himself up off the bed and follows Bucky into the kitchen. Bucky has the set of bi-fold doors open, revealing a laundry closet inside. He pulls the washer open and shoves his clothes inside, reaching to a shelf beside it for the detergent.

“You forgot your socks,” Steve tells him, pointing to his feet.

“Thanks so much,” Bucky replies, lifting one foot and then the other to peel his socks off. “You gonna take the rest of your stuff off?”

“I’d rather you did it for me,” Steve purrs, stepping closer, but Bucky puts a hand to his chest.

“Nuh uh, sweetheart, you really are covered in dirt. Hop in the shower while I get our clothes washed, then we’ll talk,” Bucky says with a wink.

Steve heaves a put-upon sigh, but reaches down to undo the button of his jeans. He makes a show of taking them off, sliding the denim down over his thighs too slowly, wriggling his hips for effect. He knows it’s a last-ditch effort, and Bucky just rolls his eyes at him, crossing his arms over his chest and tapping his foot impatiently. Steve gives up and pulls the rest of his clothes off more efficiently, handing them over for Bucky to toss into the machine.

“Scrub-a-dub-dub, cherub,” Bucky sing-songs, spinning him around by the shoulders and pushing at his back. He swats lightly at Steve’s ass as he walks away. It sends a shock right to the center of him, but he doesn’t give Bucky the satisfaction by turning around. Instead, he heads dutifully to the matchbox of a bathroom off the bedroom.

The faucet squeaks to life, water rattling up the pipes and out in a fine mist. As he waits for the water to warm, Steve faces the little mirror above the sink. It’s been a few days since he’s properly looked at himself—hasn’t had any real reason to. He runs a palm over the flat plane of his cheek, now covered in coarse hair that could almost be considered a beard. He’d forgotten how much darker his facial hair comes in than the blond on his scalp, the barest hint of red in it. His hair is a mess too, a haystack piled high. He threads his fingers through it to try to smooth it down, but it can only truly be helped by a washing.

It’s different, seeing himself like this, rough-edged and dirty. Not an unwelcome change though, he thinks. He could get used to it.

Steve sticks a hand under the spray and decides it’s warm enough now. He finds a bar of soap and a clean washcloth under the sink. Items in hand, he steps into the shower.

The water runs hot over his body, coaxing out the stiffness in his muscles. Steve luxuriates in the feel of it, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to let it pour over his face. He lathers himself up lazily and drags the cloth across his chest and down to leave a sudsy trail.

The curtain slides open with a plastic crinkle, and then Bucky steps over the lip of the tub to join him. Steve blinks his eyes open and stares at Bucky, who watches him right back, tongue peeking out between his teeth. 

“C’mere,” Steve murmurs, reaching out to pull Bucky under the spray with him. Bucky lets himself be drawn in, looping his arms around Steve’s waist loosely. He tucks his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, the warm water wetting his hair as he smiles into Steve’s skin. Steve keeps a loose grip on Bucky’s hip with one hand. With the other, he smooths the soapy cloth over Bucky’s back and rubs slow circles into his skin.

Bucky mouths an open kiss at the juncture of Steve’s neck and shoulder before pulling back to look him in the eye.

“Can I wash your hair?” he asks.

“Only if I can do yours next,” Steve replies.

Bucky smiles and nods, then he untangles his arms to grab a travel-size shampoo bottle from the lip of the tub. He pops the cap and pours some into his palm before reaching up to thread his hands into Steve’s hair. They spend long minutes working the grime out of each other’s hair, scrubbing the dust from each other’s skin, rubbing knots out of muscles.

He’d been worried that it wouldn’t be like this anymore, that they’d have to work to get back to their easy physicality and sharp rapport. But with his hands in Bucky’s hair and Bucky’s soft smile pressed into his shoulder, he realizes there are some things that will never change. Steve never would have dared to believe that if there was one thing he got to keep, it would be this. It overwhelms him sometimes, to have Bucky in his arms, because he’s been sure so many times that he had lost him in so many different ways. He can stop worrying about that now though—or can work toward stopping, anyway. Bucky’s here with him. Neither of them are going anywhere, at least not without the other.

Steve feels himself stir—can feel Bucky getting hard against his thigh too—but it’s not important, not yet. What’s important right now are Bucky’s thumbs, one water-warmed and the other still inexplicably cool, kneading at his neck. He gives himself over to the sensation of it, warm and happy and loose. As the hard spot of tension at the base of his skull finally gives, he groans. The sound of it echoes in the small confines of the shower. Bucky leans in and presses a lingering kiss to the nape of his neck.

As he pulls back, Steve spins to face him, hands floating up to hover over the place where flesh meets metal. “Is this—can I?” Steve asks, glancing up at Bucky from under wet lashes. Whether it’s the heat of the water or the moment, Bucky’s cheeks are flushed rich pink as he nods.

Steve sucks in a breath and lays hands on him, on the thick rope of scars around the edges of the metal plating. He’s touched him here before, of course he has—he’s touched him here a thousand times over. But it’s never felt quite so purposeful before. Steve realizes, as he plies tension out of the muscle with deft fingers, that he’s always tried to touch this place like it was any other place, no different than the rest. This, though—this feels like an acknowledgment of the difference. An acceptance. 

Bucky sighs long and deep, his head tipping down so his wet hair swings forward. Steve’s left hand trails lightly down Bucky’s arm towards his fingertips, the lightest brush of contact. The right hand, he smooths across Bucky’s chest, fingers spread wide. He strokes lightly over the metal plating, across Bucky’s nipple, down and around and slow. Bucky’s breath hitches, his eyes half-lidded as he crowds in closer against Steve.

Steve can feel him properly now, the hard length of him snug against his hip bone. He sucks in a sharp inhale as Bucky sweeps up at him and fits his mouth against Steve’s. Steve trails his right hand around to the small of Bucky’s back, encouraging him forward till they’re slotted against each other. Bucky sighs into Steve’s mouth at the contact, a bright spark of heat even in the steam of the shower, and Steve takes advantage of his parted lips to lick into his mouth. He grips at Bucky’s metal arm, drags it around his own body till Bucky holds onto him with it, cool fingers splayed across his midback.

He kisses him like that for a long time, close and slow and heat-hot until the water starts to cool. It isn’t until the water goes truly cold and Bucky shivers under his touch that he pulls back. Even then, Bucky chases his mouth with a furrowed brow and roaming hands.

“Just for a minute, sugar,” Steve murmurs. He presses a quick kiss to Bucky’s forehead before untangling himself to shut the water off. Bucky hums a soft protest, but he’s the one who reaches for towels off the rack by the tub. He hands one to Steve. Steve dries himself off quickly as Bucky drags his own towel roughly over his head, his face obscured by the mass of green fabric. A moment later, he pushes it back and peeks out between the folds.

Steve slings his towel around his shoulders and grins back at the cross-eyed smirk Bucky gives him. “You dunce,” Steve says, reaching out to drag the towel back down over Bucky’s face.

“Hey now, I never consented to blindfolding,” Bucky protests, one hand flying up to grip at Steve’s wrist. “We gotta talk about that kind of stuff first, tiger.”

“Oh, I didn’t know towels qualified as blindfolds. My sincerest apologies,” Steve jeers as Bucky grabs the towel off his head and tosses it on the floor outside the bath. 

“I accept,” Bucky says as he draws the curtain back properly and steps over the lip of the tub. He holds out a hand to help Steve over, then reels him in till they’re pressed together again. Steve kisses him, carding a finger through the wet tangle of his hair.

“You should probably brush this first,” Steve says against Bucky’s cheek.

“I don’t care,” Bucky huffs, cupping Steve’s jaw to coax his lips back where they belong. His other hand trails low over Steve’s belly, lower till his fingers tease at the base of Steve’s cock.

Steve sucks in a sharp inhale, eyelids fluttering closed, but he pulls back a fraction to say, “You’ll care when it dries in a rat’s nest and you— _ ah, Buck _ —can’t get a comb through it.”

“Mmm, when’d you turn into the responsible one around here?” Bucky asks. He kisses Steve softly, properly circles his cock in his hand and gives a firm tug once, twice, before he pulls away entirely. Steve whines despite himself, holding out his hands to keep Bucky in place. Bucky smirks at him and says, “What? You’re the one who told me I had to brush my hair before you’d do me, hold your horses.”

He finds a comb in a drawer and yanks it roughly through his hair a few times. It has to hurt, the way it pulls at his scalp, but Bucky doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t take his eyes off Steve while he does it, and Steve can’t look away from him either. The flush of his damp skin makes his eyes pop bluer than usual, heavy-lidded though they may be.

“There,” Bucky declares and sets the comb down on the counter. “Now will you sleep with me?”

Steve reaches forward and runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, smiling when his fingers don’t catch on any tangles. He nods and says, “I’d’ve slept with you knots and all. It’s for your own benefit.”

“Thanks for looking out for me,” Bucky says with an eye roll. But he grabs at Steve’s hand in his hair and uses his grip to pull Steve after him out of the bathroom. Steve follows willingly, crowding Bucky against the foot of the bed to kiss him again, hands gripping first at his hips and then sliding around to dig into the swell of his ass.

Bucky kisses him back languidly, open-mouthed and open-eyed. His hands move between them with no real purpose, dragging light touches over Steve’s hips, his own hips, encircling both their cocks briefly before dipping lower to tease at Steve’s balls. Then, rather unceremoniously, he grabs Steve by the waist and yanks him forward till they both fall backward onto the bed, legs tangling. The springs creak under the sudden weight, but Steve quickly adapts to the new position. He hoists himself up on his hands to hover over Bucky, who stares up at him wide-eyed and grinning.

“How do you want it?” Steve breathes, crouching lower to brush wet kisses across Bucky’s collarbone and neck.

“Can we— _ ah, shit _ ,” he keens as Steve rolls his hips against Bucky’s. Steve gives him a still moment to collect his thoughts. “Can you fuck me real slow and gentle?”

Steve smirks, his mouth still pressed to the hollow of Bucky’s neck. He pulls back to look Bucky in the eye as he says, “I think there’s another phrase for that, honey.”

Bucky flushes and pushes at Steve’s chest. “There’s lube in my bag, you absolute sap.”

Steve grins wide and shifts back onto his knees till he can inch off the bed. He lays a hand over the zipper of Bucky’s bag sitting on the dresser, but hesitates. Bucky hasn’t let him touch the bag really, much less get anything out of it. Over his shoulder, he asks, “It’s okay for me to get it?”

“I ain’t getting up, if that’s what you’re asking,” Bucky says as he maneuvers up the bed. Settled back against the pillows, his face grows softer as he says, “Yeah, Steve, it’s okay. Left side pocket.”

“Easy access,” Steve murmurs as he retrieves the bottle.

“Guess I am the responsible one,” Bucky says with a smile. Steve smiles back, crawling up the bed to settle between Bucky’s spread legs.

He opens him up slowly, and Bucky watches him till he can’t anymore, head falling back against the pillow and panting for it. Steve wonders if the unfamiliar roughness of his beard chafes, but Bucky doesn’t seem to care—might even like it, the way his hands flutter over Steve’s scalp and how he grinds down against his mouth. Steve keeps at it till Bucky hums a distinct protest and shifts away.

Steve presses soft kisses to Bucky’s thighs as he eases his fingers out. He stops on his way up Bucky’s body to lick long lines up his cock, slipping his lips over the flushed head to suck at it till Bucky trembles and pushes him away, too close to coming to let him continue. Steve smacks kisses up his stomach and over his chest, eventually making it up to Bucky’s mouth. He kisses him leisurely, deeply, as Bucky fumbles for the lube and slicks Steve’s cock up for him.

Bucky shifts his hips till he can spread his legs a little wider, wrapping his legs around Steve’s hips and coaxing him down. Steve breaks the kiss to watch Bucky’s face as he eases into him, a gentle push, inch by fraction of an inch. Bucky’s face starts out tense as Steve pushes past his entrance, but then his expression loosens and blooms. His face goes smooth, slack, soft as a petal, that delicate flush of spring pink blossoming in his cheeks. Steve bottoms out and stays there, breathing slow through his nose, till Bucky gives the tiniest little nod.

He takes him slowly, gently, the way Bucky had asked him to. Bucky writhes beneath him, little gasps and sighs creating the loveliest chorus as Steve moves inside him. Pleasure crackles up his spine and radiates outward till his every nerve ending fills with it. They go so slowly that Steve thinks the world might end before they’re done with one another. Maybe it already has. Maybe that was the point all along.

But then Steve can’t help it, Bucky feels so good around him, and he snaps his hips forward a little harder, faster. Bucky moans out, long and low, his eyes flying open and heels digging into the small of Steve’s back. His hands float up to cup Steve’s cheeks and he breathes, “Like that, do that again.”

“Thought you— _ oh _ —wanted me to make love to you,” Steve responds, even as he rolls into him forcefully again.

“Lovin’ ain’t always so delicate,” Bucky grunts out, eyelids fluttering as Steve fucks into him in earnest now. “Sometimes it’s a little rough. Like it that way sometimes though— _ oh, god, Steve _ , honey, just like that.”

Steve crowds in so he can kiss him while he thrusts, but Bucky can’t keep his mouth shut now. He mumbles nonsense into Steve’s mouth, against his neck when Steve finally gives up trying to kiss him. It’s mostly nothing words, just Steve’s name in several iterations, a lot of  _ like that _ and  _ yes _ . Steve lifts on one elbow to snake a hand between them and grip Bucky’s cock. He jacks him as close to the rhythm of his own thrusts as he can manage, and Bucky squirms and shudders beneath him, so close to the edge.

“Come on, Buck, come for me,” Steve says.

Bucky’s eyes flicker open for a brief instant and then snap closed again. Steve still rolls into him, hand still at work over his cock, as his back arches off the bed. “Steve,  _ Steve, oh god _ , that’s it. You’re so good, baby, so good to me. Baby doll,  _ baby _ , that’s my baby— _ oh _ .”

He breaks off with a groan from deep in his chest as he comes. Steve glances between his face and his cock, torn between which one he wants to watch more as he works Bucky through his orgasm, through the aftershocks. After a long moment, Bucky settles back against the sheets, reaching up to wipe the sweat off his brow. Steve’s heart feels full enough to run over as he thumbs at Bucky’s lip where it’s caught between his teeth, coaxing it loose. He takes it for granted most days now, how good it is to have a heart that works right. It’s moments like this where he can feel it beating wildly and painlessly that he remembers how grateful for he is for that much, despite everything else that came after. If it weren’t for his new heart, neither of them would be here at all right now.

Bucky slowly blinks his eyes open. “Keep going,” he tells Steve.

Steve hadn’t registered that he’d completely stilled his movements after Bucky had come. “Are you sure? I can—“ He starts to pull out, but Bucky tightens the grip of his thighs around him.

“Come on, wanna feel you. Want you to feel as good as me right now,” Bucky drawls.

Slowly, Steve starts to thrust again, working back at that easy rhythm from before. Bucky is loose and pliant beneath him, smiling up at him with sleepy eyes. It’s that little blissed out, open-mouthed smile that does it for Steve. Bucky strokes at his hair as he topples gracelessly over the edge, coming with a loud moan. His arms finally buckle and he collapses over Bucky’s chest, but Bucky just drags his hand down to rub slow circles into his back as he comes down from the high of it.

After a long, breathless beat, he finds the wherewithal to haul his weight off Bucky—mostly anyway, slinging an arm and a leg over him as he settles with his head on Bucky’s chest. He breathes deep for a few slow minutes, timing his breaths to Bucky’s till he feels his heartbeat calm. After the rest of his body regains feeling, his brain switches back on too.

“You called me baby,” Steve says against Bucky’s skin.

“Couldn’t think of anything else,” Bucky says. “You had me going there for a minute.”

Steve hums softly and strokes at Bucky’s side, his forearm dragging through the mess gone cold on Bucky’s abdomen. It’s maybe a little gross, but he doesn’t mind so much right now. There’s time to clean up. “I kind of liked it,” he admits, squirming sheepishly.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Steve, baby,” Bucky tests out, and Steve snuggles more firmly into his side, sighing happily. “Oh, you really do like it. Okay, baby, alright,” Bucky says, and presses a tender kiss into Steve’s still-damp hair.

Steve stays quiet for a while, drifting closer and closer to sleep. A clock ticks loudly on the nightstand. He hadn’t noticed it before. Just on the edge of dozing off, something occurs to him. He murmurs, “Hey, Bucky?”

“Steve?” Bucky whispers back, sleep-addled himself.

“Where’d you get all that money from anyhow?”

“Oh,” Bucky hums. “Some I already had. The rest I siphoned off in bits, a twenty here or there. Nothing you’d notice on your bank statements if you weren’t looking too hard. Took me awhile to get enough.”

Steve stiffens in his arms. “So you were really gonna—“ he starts, but can’t find the words to finish the sentence, lodged in his throat.

“Shh,” Bucky hushes him, stroking down his back with one hand, the other reaching up to pet at his cheek. “It doesn’t matter what I was gonna do. We’re here now. And you’re forgetting—I got a fake license for you too. I’m not going anywhere without you, Steve.”

Steve relaxes into him again, calming. He murmurs, “Good,” before he drifts off to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

He wakes up with the sun in his eyes, slanting sideways through the thin curtains. A breeze through the open window catches the fabric, soft and cool against his face. He’s sweating, tangled up in the sheets—no central cooling in this old house. It’s as he kicks his legs free of the sheets that Steve realizes he has the bed to himself.

He wakes up fully then, hands scrabbling at the empty space beside him. He sits up and blinks hard to adjust to the dim light of the room. Just before he vaults off the bed in a panic, Steve notices a folded piece of paper perched on the other pillow. He grabs for it, and as he unfolds it, his heart rate slows.

_ S, went out to get dinner stuff. Clean clothes in the drawers. – B _

He rubs a finger over the top-heavy loop of the B, smiling fondly. He sets the note on the bedside table, flicking on the lamp before he gets up properly. Their bags are unpacked, all their freshly washed clothes folded in the dresser. How long has he been out, that Bucky had time to do all that? Steve glances at the clock, which ticks close to seven. A long time then, but it’s been awhile since he’s slept in a bed with sheets that didn’t scratch. 

As he pulls clean clothes from the dresser, he thinks that it’s nice to not be living out of a bag for a while. It feels good to be here, to be settled somewhere for at least a few days, to know that Bucky’s going to cook dinner and then they’ll eat it and then fall back into bed again. It’s nice to have a place to just _ be _ for a while, to just exist with each other with no other pressures.

Steve gets dressed and wanders into the kitchen for a glass of water. He pours one and downs the whole thing, then pours another. He nurses that one for a while, staring out the back door as the shadows grow over the yard. On the fridge he spots the notepad where Bucky had gotten the paper. He grabs it absently, picking up the pen left out on the counter as he trails toward the front door and outside. He sits on the little concrete slab of a stoop and sets his water down beside him.

He's just finishing up a third page of haphazard doodles when he hears the low rumble of the motorcycle. The sound floats up the street before Bucky makes the turn. Steve sets the notepad aside to watch as Bucky comes rolling back. He left the helmet off this time. He roars into the driveway, and the bike looks cleaner than it did before—shiny and fresh, like he’s had it washed.

The house faces west, so the wide orange sun low in the sky lights up his silhouette from behind. Steve feels his heart thud in his chest at the sight of him, warm and steady. He gets up as Bucky comes to stop. Bucky kicks the stand out and cuts the engine, swinging off the bike in a graceful arc of the leg. He squints at Steve in the bright light of sunset.

Before Bucky can turn to get the groceries in the saddlebags, Steve sweeps him up in a tight hug. Bucky hums a surprised note as Steve tucks his face against Bucky’s neck, inhaling his scent, sweet and delicious as the warm desert air. After a moment Bucky’s arms circle around him and hug back.

“Hey there, baby doll, miss me much?” Bucky chuckles.

Steve nods and says, “Thanks for telling me where you were.”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky murmurs. “But we gotta get the groceries inside. I’ve got perishable items.”

Steve reluctantly lets him go and moves to help get the food out of the saddlebags. Bucky has more in his backpack, and together they carry them up the path. Steve pauses to gather up the glass and the notepad on the porch.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks.

“Oh, nothing,” Steve replies, holding the door out for him.

“Thanks,” Bucky says. He sets his bag down on the kitchen counter as Steve trails in after him, discarding the notepad on the coffee table. “Doesn’t look like nothing,” Bucky hums as he starts unpacking his bag.

“I mean, it’s just—doodles.” Steve shrugs as he pulls a can of black beans out of a bag. He’d been doing it mindlessly, barely aware of it, so he knows whatever’s on those pages is probably crap. But it’d been good to get a pencil in his hand anyway, no matter what he had produced.

“Doodles, huh?” Bucky asks, and Steve can hear the affected innocence of the question. He’s curious as hell.

“Do you wanna see?” Steve asks. He abandons unpacking to go grab the notepad again.

“Only if you want to share,” Bucky says, coming around the edge of the counter.

Steve hands him the notepad. Bucky takes it with an unsubtle grin, holding it up to examine it. As he flips through the three pages of drawings, Steve chews his lip. He knows Bucky won’t judge him for being rusty, but he never liked showing him anything that wasn’t perfect.

“Steve,” Bucky starts. “Is this—is this supposed to be me?”

He flips the pad around to show Steve the sketch of a personified cactus. Steve shrugs noncommittally. “I don’t know.”

“It’s got my hair. And my arm.” Steve squints at the drawing again like he’s seeing it properly for the first time, then just shrugs again. Bucky swats at him with the notepad. “A cactus? Is that how you see me? Prickly?”

“Resilient,” Steve corrects, blowing his cover.

“Huh,” Bucky huffs, taking another look at the page. “Only you’d make a cutesy doodle unexpectedly insightful. You should start a series, draw yourself as a maple tree.”

“Huh?”

“Because of all the sap, duh,” Bucky replies, spinning away and heading to the fridge. He peels the page off the pad and sticks it to the fridge with a magnet. As Steve comes into the kitchen behind him, Bucky steps back and gestures broadly. “How long’s it been since the last time your art made the fridge?”

“Too long,” Steve answers, grinning.

Bucky smiles right back at as he returns to the grocery bags. He pulls something out of one of them and hands it to Steve. Steve takes the items and lays them on the counter before him.

“For Mrs. Sanchez, like I promised. And Sam,” Bucky says. The two postcards show oversaturated pictures of the desert, looping font spelling out a greeting. “I’ll let you write the notes while I get dinner going.”

Steve picks up the cards and the pen and takes them into the living room. “What’s for dinner?” he asks as he eases onto the floor, legs under the coffee table and back against the couch. He knows they already live together, have lived together before, but something about this moment feels more domestic than usual. Lighter, even easier than before, like there was something looming over them he hadn’t noticed till it was gone.

“Thought I’d try my hand at enchiladas,” Bucky asks over the sound of an electric can opener whirring. “We could probably find better in town, but I wanted to cook, and—“

“When in Rome?” Steve fills in, craning around to smirk at Bucky behind the counter.

“When in southern California,” Bucky quips back.

As it turns out, Bucky makes the best enchiladas Steve’s ever tasted.

 

Lara calls two days later to tell them that the truck is fixed and running again. They pack up their things and tidy up the house, trying to leave it at least as neat as they found it. Bucky grumbles a good riddance as he locks up, but Steve sees the wistful glance Bucky gives the place as they walk away. He catches it because he does the same thing. 

The world has given Steve so many new starts, not all of them something he was initially grateful for. This chance though, these few days away from the world where the only familiar thing they’ve had to hold onto has been each other, might be his favorite of the bunch. It hasn’t been painless, and he never expected it to be, but it’s easier to scale and even start to deconstruct their walls now that they’ve acknowledged the shape of them. There’s no roadmap to reforging a connection, but Steve has learned that they do pretty well without one anyway. Even when they get lost, he and Bucky can find their way back out.

They treated it like what it was: a vacation. Days spent outside in the bright sunlight, nights inside together—all of it lazy, unhurried, and unburdened as they could manage. It felt like the biggest breath of fresh air Steve’s taken in his whole life. By Bucky’s leisurely slouch on the porch, how he danced and sang while he cooked their meals, and those tender little smiles Steve would catch out of the corner of his eye—Steve knows Bucky felt the same way.

Part of him really doesn’t want to leave that house behind. Maybe they’ll come back. He’d like to.

They load onto the motorcycle again, Bucky as snug behind him as always, and they drive away.

 

At the auto shop, Lara prances out to meet them, her hair in double braids today. She gives an excited little wave as they clamber off the bike to greet her.

“Hi, boys, how was the honeymoon?” she asks with a sly grin.

“We’re not even married, Lara,” Steve tells her, rubbing at the back of his neck but smiling despite himself. Bucky doesn’t say anything, just catches Steve’s hand in his own and leans into his side.

“Hmm, could’ve fooled me,” she says. “Come get your lady. She missed you.”

They follow her around the building to the back lot, where the truck sits between two decidedly nicer cars. But it doesn’t look too shabby, Steve thinks. He missed it a little too.

“I gave it a wash. Hope you don’t mind, but  _ I _ minded getting covered in dust every time I walked within two feet of it,” Lara tells them, digging in her front pocket. She pulls out the keys and tosses them to Steve. “Try her out.”

Steve climbs into the cab and cranks the engine, which turns without even the faintest protest. It’s not quite purring—this engine probably never purred in its whole life—but it sounds much better than it did before.

Bucky and Lara appear at his window, both smiling wide. As he rolls the window down, Lara points and says, “I also improved your stereo system because I am a nice human.”

“Oh sweet, thank you,” Bucky says emphatically, circling around the front of the truck. He climbs into the passenger seat to examine her handiwork. She’d replaced his haphazard duct tape job with thick strips of Velcro, anchoring the portable speaker to the dashboard more securely.

“Happy to do it for you two prime slices,” Lara says, smacking her hand against the door. “Pull her around front and I’ll help you get the bike back in the bed.”

Bucky goes inside to square up their bill while Steve and Lara get the motorcycle loaded up again. It takes a little longer than the first time, since they use a ramp instead of Steve lifting it. But they get it secured quickly enough, and as Lara hops down from the bed, she holds her hand out for Steve to shake. He takes it in his own.

Shaking his hand, Lara says, “It was nice to meet you and your boy, Steve.”

“Yeah, Lara, you too. Thanks again for fixing the truck for us,“ Steve says, patting the bumper fondly.

“Next time you buy a better truck in the first place, and I won’t have to,” she chastises, and when Steve laughs, she joins in with him. “Okay, I gotta get back to work. If you’re ever in town again, don’t hesitate to drop by!”

“Will do,” Steve says, waving as she turns and strides back toward the garage. Bucky comes out through the office door when she’s halfway across the lot, and she swerves over to meet him. She shakes his hand too, then glances over her shoulder at Steve. When she turns back to Bucky, whatever she says makes him laugh. He meets Steve’s eye and grins at him before turning his attention back to Lara. He says something, and she claps him on the shoulder amicably then heads into the garage.

Steve leans against the truck’s rear bumper as Bucky approaches him. He’s still smiling faintly, and he looks so happy and relaxed that Steve wants to sweep him up in his arms and spin him around. He settles for asking, “What’d she say that had you laughing like that?”

“Oh, nothing your innocent ears can handle,” Bucky hums, grinning.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “So it was about me.”

“Someone’s awful sure of themselves,” Bucky drawls, trailing past Steve toward the passenger door. Steve fishes the keys out of his pocket. He opens the door just as Bucky slides into his seat. They both settle in, getting buckled and adjusting mirrors and choosing a playlist. 

Bucky says, “There was some innuendo, but basically she told me that we’re lucky to have each other.”

Steve turns to look at him and watches his face for a long beat. “I’d say she’s got that one right.”

Bucky smiles back at him. “Yeah, me too.”

Steve cranks the engine again. He turns to Bucky with a smile and says, “Alright, Bucky. Where are we going? The Pacific Ocean? The Grand Canyon?”

Bucky stares out the window, and his contemplative smile slowly fades. He glances at Steve, a pinch between his brow. “I think I’m ready to go home. If you are.”

Steve starts to say that he is, but then he pauses to give it real thought. Some small part of him had wondered if they truly were running away, and he realizes then that an even smaller part had hoped that they were. Neither of them owe the world anything, not anymore—if their cosmic debt isn’t settled by now, Steve doesn’t know what could possibly balance it.

But it’s the way Bucky said it, that he wants to have a purpose. Steve has always felt that way too. Roaming like this isn’t truly sustainable for either of them, as nice as it’s been to get away from the responsibilities and reorient himself around what’s most important to him. Steve has never been a runner, but he would be if Bucky asked him to.

He isn’t asking for that though. He wants to go home.

Steve nods and says, “Of course.”

“We can do the Grand Canyon next time, yeah? I’ve never been,” Bucky says. When he smiles, it’s tentative and hopeful.

“Oh,” Steve says, as the understanding blooms between them. They’re going back, yes, but that doesn’t mean that they’ll never leave again. If it gets to be too much, or they just want a break from everything again—a vacation—they can get away. It lifts Steve’s heart till he’s soaring with the freedom of it, that they don’t have to lose this feeling.

“Okay,” he says, “but I want to see the Great Lakes sometime too. Niagara Falls and all that.”

“Those aren’t anywhere close to each other. We’ll have to make two trips.”

“That a problem?”

“‘Course not. That’s a promise,” Bucky says, and Steve can hear the smile in his voice as he shifts the truck into gear. A thousand destinations appear in his mind’s eye. He’ll get a map when they get back, start filling it with thumb tacks till he can’t read it for how full it is.

“Good. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been informed that a list of all the pet names Bucky uses is necessary for Science so here is that list: cutie-pie, snickerdoodle, flower blossom, doll face, stud muffin, love bug, dear heart, chicken dumpling, sugar plum, buttercup, dill pickle, darling dearest, sugar pop, jelly bear, sunshine, lemon drop, cherub, tiger—and then of course baby and baby doll, as well as the standard sweetheart, honey, sugar (and pal and champ but those have a different context).


End file.
